


Towards Peace

by aerialbots



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers (Bay Movies), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Big Bang Challenge, Character Study, Cross-Faction Relationships, Families of Choice, Fix-It, In Soviet Russia Airplane Fly YOU, M/M, Multi, Non-Explicit Sex, Post-War, Slow Burn, Team as Family, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-21
Updated: 2020-02-25
Packaged: 2020-09-23 03:01:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 31,845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20332957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aerialbots/pseuds/aerialbots
Summary: At the climax of the battle of Mission City, the AllSpark is pushed into Megatron's chest -- and instead of killing him, it does what it was made for.It transforms.After millennia of slow descent into madness brought by programming corruption, the Lord Protector Megatron finds his mind suddenly restored, but the memory of what he's done cannot be washed away. With the war brought to a violent halt, both Autobots and Decepticons must learn to coexist if they want to reunite their civilisation and restore their dying world.





	1. break the fever (said the lost archangel)

**Author's Note:**

> Art by the amazing Brenna and Shadow can be found [here (beware spoilers)](https://twitter.com/pangolinart) and [here](https://twitter.com/DuboisSiloe). Betaed by Aki and inflicted upon Kath, both of whom I love and will never deserve, and who kept me from rolling into a volcano and/or printing this fic out to ritually burn in my garden.
> 
> Shout out to Lost, whose Skype inbox this was born in, a full six years ago.
> 
> Ride shiny and chrome, y'all.

There is this, in the end: the battle for the AllSpark, the fire burning in his mind; the ache, the silence, the nearness, the _ noise-- _

and then it all stops.

he onlines to the stars over kaon.

_ beautiful, _ he thinks, uncomplicated and tender in a way he won't experience again. then, _ oh. _

it takes a moment for him to realise the thought isn't quite his own.

_ "oh", _ he-but-not-himself thinks again, and this time he says it out loud. his optics unfocus, focus again, and when he turns his head he comes face to face with the stars -- except they aren't, not really. they're silver optics, looking back at him.

_ self_, he thinks, then, _ brother. _

“beloved”, he says, and reaches out. 

his twin meets him in the middle, smiles sweet as starlight. “_ipse_”, he says, and it sounds like an endearment, too. 

“yes”, he agrees. they stand as one, still holding onto each other, and when they glance down it all comes to them in a rush.

_ “Oh”, _ his sparkmate says again -- laughs, really, a little overwhelmed and a lot overjoyed, and it feels like his spark has sunk into the Silver Seas, subsumed into a love so vast there's nothing to do but let it take over his body.

He comes closer, rests his forehead against his twin's, a warm, harmonic croon all but bursting out of him, “Brother, lover, _beloved_”, he hums, half a lullaby and all devotion. It is no song that has ever been sung on Cybertron, for all that it's older than both of them. “Dearest, brightest, best.”

“Optimus”, his _ ipse _ says, like an offering, a promise, and when Optimus meets his gaze his optics shift to match his own, blue against blue reflecting off their faces.

“Optimus”, he smiles. The AllSpark's energy is a quiet, steady thrum, metal comfortingly warm under their feet. Outside the temple, he now knows, a crowd will be waiting, ready to welcome their new High Protector and Prime. Every single one of Cybertron's fragile, brilliant, innumerable sparks is theirs to care for, Optimus’ to guide and his to protect.

He thinks of the stars above them, of Kaon below, the world he has not yet seen but _ knows _ from a place deep in his spark, where all in him that was made to love burns brighter than any star, bright as the hope in Optimus’ optics. He thinks of the valleys eroded by the acid storms, their scarred topography curving over the cities etched into the canyons like a shield, an embrace, thinks of the region's eons of relentless survival.

_ Rainhaven_, he nearly names himself, steady and solid as the shelter of the cliffs, but he wishes for nothing as much as he wants to do well by his people, to be good, to _ serve_.

“Megatron”, he says -- chooses -- instead.

Optimus waits across the room as Megatron bleeds out, immutable, unmoving. Megatron's spark cries for its twin even as he attempts to rein it in, too many memories at once, corruption bursting into flames in his processors and going up in smoke, there and gone and uncaring of the millennia of his life -- oh Primus so many lives -- consumed in their wake.

_ brotherloverself _ tastes like ashes in his mouth. He swallows the words, shuts his optics, and does not claw and cling and cry out when Optimus is the one to wall up his spark, this time.

If a moment ever belonged to only them, it was this: their bodies face to face, the last doors closed between them and the world, hours after their welcoming.

For the first time, they were alone.

_ Megatron_, said Optimus, and cradled his face. He didn't need a mirror to know the differences between them, his own edges sharper, frame thunderstorm-fierce. Optimus was leaner, too, graceful in his stillness, a wealth of tenderness spilling into his steadfast form.

_ Optimus, _ Megatron replied, and meant _ 'my all.' _

Starscream shows up uncalled a week after the last battle, circling over the base like a particularly supercilious drone and demanding to talk with Optimus through every channel he can access. He's fairly sure the worst thing Starscream can do right now is give him a headache, but he brings Ratchet as back up anyway, if only to reassure Lennox he isn't trying to meet his death.

“I was informed by Lord Megatron of his not being dead", Starscream declares immediately upon landing on the clearing, which is, incidentally, how long it takes before Optimus regrets ever agreeing to the meeting. So much for uncalled. "He was very clear that I should come in peace--"

“Peace my _ aft." _

“Ratchet", Optimus cuts in, wishing he could run a hand over his face, "please don't provoke him.”

“Megatron demanded we stop all attacks”, Starscream continues, ignoring Ratchet. “Are you still at war?”

“No. As long as Earth and its inhabitants are left unharmed by other Cybertronians then no, we aren't”, Optimus says, each glyph and modifier chosen carefully. “We want only to coexist in peace.”

Starscream’s optics narrow, wings uncharacteristically still. “Have you declared martial law over the planet as a colony?”

“Earth is not a colony”, Optimus says, unable to hold back a frown. “There's nothing to declare law _ over _ to begin with.”

Starscream doesn't even acknowledge his response. “Are you going to execute Megatron?”

Optimus's mouth twists behind his mask. _ “No, _Starscream. Why are you--”

“Then under what terms are you keeping him prisoner?”, Starscream interrupts, unyielding.

Ratchet's field _ flares _ with anger. “We _ aren't-- _”

“I am his _ sparkmate”, _ Optimus snaps, sharply enough Ratchet actually shuts up, “and his fucking emergency contact. I don't need _ terms _ to keep him in our fragging medbay, because we are no longer at war and he isn't my goddamn prisoner.”

Ratchet was right. Human cursing is _incredibly_ cathartic.

Starscream looks oddly satisfied, which is pretty fucking alarming. “Then, as the Lord High Protector of Cybertron's _ conjunx ipse _ and Prime Regnant, what remains of the Decepticon army is entitled to your auspice.”

Ratchet nearly blows a gasket. “You loopholing piece of shi--”

He raises a hand and Ratchet shuts up, fuming. Optimus stares _ hard, _ but his voice is even, dignified, even if he's holding it by a thread. “So you are. But this means you have to behave, or I'll be legally allowed to kick your fucking afts and stick you in a brig.”

“I'll take the risk”, Starscream drawls, so clearly not giving a single fuck it takes all of Optimus' self control not to grab him by the wing and chuck him as far as he can. “I shall gather my trine. I'll be back in a few months.” He smiles nastily. “Don't wait up.”

He shoots off into the sky without further word. Both of them stare until he disappears into the upper atmosphere.

“Primus, I fucking hate him."

Optimus sighs. “And apparently I no longer can.”

It's hard not to think while on guard duty. Ironhide brought it upon himself, to be fair, but it is what makes the most sense; out of everyone on the planet, he and Optimus are the only ones who could stand their own against their fallen Protector. Megatron is unconscious, most of the time, quiet when he isn't, but he's yet to come online with anything but a spark-rending cry that still makes Ironhide flinch three weeks later. For all of Prime's protests, Ironhide can see the relief his insistence on taking the post as often as he can has brought Optimus.

If Ironhide's being honest with himself, getting some space away from Optimus was part of it, too.

It plays in his head over and over again, as soon as he's distracted, Bumblebee’s desperate wailing mixed with the sound of choppers overhead, the fight-or-flight rush brought by outwaiting enemy lights and crosshairs. Ironhide had stayed as close to silent as he could while the mech he was sparked for washed his hands off his only creation, and that silence has been eating at him since.

_ Were we so different, once?, _ Optimus had asked, when Ironhide could no longer hold his anger (helplessness) back, but they _ had _ been. Once, they had been.

It helps slightly -- eventually -- to see Bee with the human kids, how they both are as visibly taken with him as he is by them. He deserves it, and fulfilling the calling he'd only ever gotten to follow in the name of war made him exuberantly happy. Lennox may be a warrior, but he is also a good dude for letting those two stick around.

It is telling, Ironhide thinks, that humankind struggles away from their own brutality while their own race had to learn it throughout millennia, but he doesn't yet know _ what _ it is that it says about them both.

Mikaela and Optimus stand at the edge of the bluffs, watching the sunset. School's let out for spring break, and Sam and Bee are off shopping for snacks for pretty much all of the base -- they've managed to get permission to stay out with the bots for a week. Mikaela had seen Optimus when they were about to leave, though, and told the boys to go without her.

It's different, when you have lost something life-altering. You can recognise your own. She imagines it must be just as indescribable to suddenly have it back. The sun's spilling out into the horizon, painting everything in rust and energon and blood.

“What are they like on Cybertron?”, she asks. The question slips from her almost without her wanting it to, a sudden need to know, to _ understand _ this utterly foreign being next to her who's nevertheless hurting in such an achingly familiar way.

It takes but a moment for Optimus to answer, his words certain and easily subsumed as a ship lost at sea. “Unusual. Breathtaking. Our days last far longer than yours do." He glances at the trees in the distance and the burning trail of the horizon both seeing and unseeing, as though looking for words. "The storms make them impossible to describe. Sometimes I lie awake and think about every single one I have seen."

There's a tightness in her throat. “It sounds amazing”, she says, and means it. “So what’s the plan, now the war is over?”

"Going back. We inflicted wounds upon our world that will take lifetimes to heal. It is our responsibility to recover what was lost, and bring about what will be."

Mikaela’s dismayed, the world shifting under her again. She didn't realise she'd gotten this attached already. “So you won't stay around at all?”

Optimus’ gaze softens, understanding. The rotating antennae at the sides of his head spin back, just a little, his shoulders lowering. “It will take some time before it happens. The call has been sent out, and we must wait for our fellow Autobots. For all Cybertronians who answer. After that, we will go home.”

“Oh.” She's relieved, a little embarrassed by being so visibly upset by it before. “Are there really more of you out there?”

His eyes -- optics -- are a bleeding wound. “Less than four hundred Autobots, by our best estimates. Maybe more, depending on how many deep space outposts remain. It is impossible to tell, at this time.” She tries to touch his ankle, which is the closest thing she can reach. Optimus’ field feels like touching a Tesla coil, but she doesn't move her hand, and she can tell he tries to keep the mood from sinking. “Most of them should arrive soon, but a few teams are at least two quadrants out. It will likely take them at least five years or so to arrive.”

"Oh!", she says, surprised. "That’s not too bad."

"Bumblebee is quite happy, yes", he agrees, indulging her with that focusing shift of his optics she's come to realise means he's smiling.

She smiles back, just on the edge of shy. “He’s not the only one. Sam and I might kidnap him more if we're gonna be on borrowed time.”

“I’m sure something can be arranged.”

“And what about you?”, she asks, hesitant.

Optimus tilts his head, antennae moving forward. “What do you mean?”

“How do _ you _ feel?", she clarifies. "Now that it's over."

He seems surprised -- so much he actually thinks about it, gives her an honest reply. “It doesn’t feel so", he says, then pauses. “I don’t know how it ever will.”

_ Not without him _ goes unspoken. Mikaela hears it all the same.

There is peace in emptiness. They must have forced him into stasis after his last episode, or maybe he fell into it himself. Megatron doesn’t think he’s felt this sort of quiet in centuries. 

At least aside from the memory.

It is there every time he dreams, and he doesn't know if it's the fact that it was his last kill or that it's the nearest to his spark, the sensation of his claws sinking into reinforced plating, tearing to reach the protoform below, a long-unfamiliar warmth.

That he'd been past caring by the moment it was done feels the greatest crime of it all. All things considered, Megatron minds the emptiness the least by far.

It's late for the day cycle when he leaves his room. Ironhide isn't watching outside his door, Ratchet conspicuous in his absence as Megatron hesitates by the alcove where he knows they're keeping Jazz's frame.

He approaches Jazz's side, just shy of touching the medical berth holding him. It's the first time he's seen him since that final battle, since he _ killed _ him, and it is then, days and weeks later, that Megatron allows himself to mourn. The energon in his hands, the despair brought by thinking clearly for the first time in four million years, the pain of his _ ipse's _ absence fade in the face of the jagged cry trying to leave his throat, of the complete disarray of his field.

One of his earliest friends is dead, and Megatron is the one who killed him.

He raises a trembling hand to Jazz's face, the only part of him not scarred from Ratchet's welds, but lowers it to the bench instead. _ Prowl should get to choose, _ had been Ratchet's curt reply when he'd asked about funeral rites. Megatron hadn't known they'd become conjunx -- hadn't even had any idea they'd been close at all.

Just one more way he's failed, he thinks tiredly. He vents hard, and lowers his forehead to Jazz's for a last goodbye before he leaves.

The world _ explodes _ into scorching light, his spark surging in a burst of energy that crackles down his frame hard enough to throw him against the wall, and sheer, desperate _ panic _ flares inside him like a dying star, louder than the pain, than the subsonic shriek of the medbay alarms, louder than Ironhide's demands to ** _'report_**, _ Primus dammit!' _

_ Megatron! _

He can't _ see, _ can't do anything but try to breathe through the unforgiving pain in his chest, his processors still glitching from the collision with the medbay wall.

_ brother, _ ** _please--_**

His visuals come back online along with the whine of a charging blaster and the hangar doors crashing open beyond the room, but the second Ratchet bursts in there's a matching barrel pointed at him.

Jazz's hand is steady on the grip.

"Stars be good", Ratchet whispers, leaning on the doorframe as his legs threaten to give up on him.

"Ratch", Jazz says, his voice tight, part greeting and mostly warning. "Funny guest you've got here."

"Not a very funny story", Ratchet replies. To his credit, it comes out only slightly unsteady. "You were dead in it, for one."

Jazz's plating flattens, but he doesn't move at all. "Explain."

"I would if I could", Ratchet says helplessly. "You were-- he tore you in half. I welded you back in one piece myself. Your chamber was empty."

"You weren't online when I came here", Megatron says, barely keeping himself from flinching when Jazz looks at him. "I didn't-- I only touched you for a moment, and then..."

The visor's colours waver, just for a moment. Megatron remembers Soundwave's doing the Same, just once, the day Buzzsaw's feed had cut off mid-battle and never come back on, and his spark _ aches. _

Slowly, by degrees, the blasters lower, then fold back into Jazz's wrists.

“What happened?”, Jazz whispers, gaze flicking anxiously between them, and it's the way he says it -- not suspicious but confused, _ scared _ \-- that sends Megatron's field into disarray, every atom in him crying out for a familiarity long gone.

“The human boy”, he says, as steadily as he can, not moving, but allowing his plating to relax. “The Allspark was pushed into my spark chamber. Ratchet thinks it-- that I--”

“He merged with the fucking _ cube _ . It purged all the corruption in his systems, as far as we can tell, restored his processors to before it took hold, so, _huzzah,_ Lodestar was right. Fixed most physical issues, too. Last time I saw someone running this smoothly Bumblebee had just been sparked. Apparently it extends to other people.” He gives them both a hard look, as though warning them not to do anything stupid, then seems to decide Jazz is calm enough to be herded out towards the nearest berth. “Sweet sinning torpedoes, I'm too fragging _ old _ for this. _ No, _ don't say anything, you'll make me get emotional and I'll punch your handsome fucking face. You fuck. How _ dare _you die on us.”

“Didn't exactly plan it, doc”, Jazz says, trying to smile against the downpour of cursing and extremely thorough scans.

Ratchet's face is thunderous. “You went up against this slagger's murderous aft on your _ goddamn own_, how the _ fuck _ did you think that was gonna end?!"

“Well--”

“No. Shut it. And _ you", _ he barks, whirling around to point at Megatron, "stop being tormented over there, I can feel you angsting behind me.”

Megatron stiffens, nods. “Very well. Should I…?”

“Stay hecking put, you're next. I don't know what in the fragging fuck you did, but it sounds _ exactly _ like the kind of bad juju that will age me before my time.”

Jazz laughs nervously, and Megatron makes the mistake of meeting his gaze. Just looking at him _ hurts, _an ache seeping to his very spark, and yet Megatron will gladly bear it for the rest of his life, if it means Jazz is alive.

Jazz tilts his head, says softly: '_Hey. Come here.' _ Ratchet gives him a ferociously eloquent 'no shenanigans' look, but doesn't stop Megatron from approaching. He crouches when Jazz reaches out for him, lets him touch his temple. '_It's really you, huh?' _

_ 'It is', _ he agrees, quiet, heavy. _ 'I'm sorry I brought you harm.' _

_ 'I've had worse. I would take it again, if I had to.' _ His optics are so kind it hurts more than hatred would. '_It's worth it, if you're back to yourself. _'

Don't cry. Do not cry. You don't _ deserve _ crying. '_Don't say that', _ Megatron whispers, optics offline against the roar in his mind, mercilessly nothing but his own thoughts. '_Not after what I have done.' _

_ 'Alright. I won't', _ Jazz says, stroking his cheek so gently Megatron has to look at him, helpless against the lack of judgement in his gaze. '_But i'm thinking it.' _

Jazz curls against Megatron's side, refuses to move in spite of Ratchet's frown when it's Megatron's turn to be scanned. He thinks, aching and perhaps on the edge of hysteria, about how Prowl had gotten away with exactly this as a sparkling every time Megatron visited Nightstalker's eyrie.

Some prodding gets Megatron up on the berth with Jazz, the smaller mech's hand sliding into his own as Megatron rises, then settles next to him. Megatron daren't touch him, just holds his hand fragile as a second chance.

Ratchet sighs a little under an hour later, pressing under one of his optic ridges. "You'll live. Jazz'd be going on regen if we had it, but we _ don't, _ so I want you both to nap the fuck out til I like the look of your vitals. This is not optional."

It takes some negotiating, what with the size of the medbay's berths, but eventually they're face to face, holding each other -- or rather Megatron lays very still, and lets Jazz hold him as though he would shatter if he withdrew his touch. The strange yellow sunshine comes in through the window, and slowly, not looking away from each other, they fall into recharge.


	2. your ghosts unquantifiable

The white expanse of the fields is empty when Charlie climbs into the jet's cockpit, hiding from the cold and from the argument she just left behind. There's a certain irony to her habit of returning here whenever the world refuses to make sense, considering both her dad and her grandfather had promised they'd eventually explain why they raised her looking after a junky airplane, and then both died on her before they did. It doesn't make it any less of a refuge.

It's not so much the looming threat of losing this that makes her tear up, really. Just grief. “How could they want to get rid of you?”, she whispers, running careful fingers over the old, battered console, even if  _ ‘how can they ask me to forget?’  _ is what she means.

A jolt electricity shocks her all of a sudden, and when the plane starts shaking violently she hurries to step out, worried about an earthquake -- except it isn't the ground that shakes.

It's the jet turning into… something.

Some _ one. _

It probably says something about her survival instincts that instead of running she just stands there frozen and  _ stares. _

It garbles something staticky, struggling to its knees before its gaze falls on her. Then, unexpectedly, “Тчарлиы?”, it says, soft and low, wondrous and wounded.

Tears spring from her eyes, stinging in the frigid air. No one's called her that since her grandfather passed, not even her brother. Nowadays she's only Carly. “Yeah, that's. My name is Charlie.”

“Где Коля?”, the-- the  _ jet _ asks, except it's clearly not just a jet, not with the painfully tender way he says her grandfather's name.

“Kolya? He...Granddad passed away”, she says, throat suddenly tight, burning. It isn't the cold. “Four years ago. You didn't know?”

Its eyes struggle to focus, and that sharp-faced head tilts a little, either with exhaustion or confusion. “Тчарли, Где Коля?”

“I. Christ on a fondue stick. Alright, so you don't speak English. Did he bring you from-- of course he did, that's a dumb question. Just. Hold on, okay?”, she says, words spilling nervously, and takes out her phone, holds up a hand in the hopefully-universal ‘hang on’ gesture as she unlocks it and opens the app store. “Okay, so I just gotta-- give me a minute and the app'll download, and then we can--” Something incredibly cold brushes her palm, and she startles so bad she nearly drops her mobile.

One of its fingers is pressed against her hand

She lowers her phone, smiles tremulously. “Hey.” her spread fingers barely cover a fraction of its fingertip, but she presses back all the Same. “God, I can't believe you were there all this time. I hope you were asleep all the while. It must've been terribly lonely otherwise.” The buzz of her phone snaps her from her musing, and she takes a few steps closer, turns her body to allow it to peer at her relatively tiny screen over her shoulder (really, over her whole self). It makes a rumbling noise as she goes through the process of signing in, but stays still, and its eyes are alert as she moves to face him again. “Alright. Can you understand me now?”

_ “Ты меня уже понимаешь?”, _ her phone chirps.

Its eyes widen, the sharp-looking fins around its face flapping and moving a little, and it extends its hand again, palm up.

“You… want my phone?”, she says, confused.

_ “Ты хочешь мой телефон?” _

“Да”, it agrees.

_ “Yes”, _ her phone says helpfully, as though she wouldn't at the very least remember that one. She resists the urge to either sigh or ask for a better explanation, and places the device on the jet's hand.

It immediately bursts into sparks.

“ _ Fishsticks  _ above!”, Charlie shrieks, jumping back, and it makes a noise that sounds alarmed enough to match, the-- wings? probably? -- on its back flaring back and to the side like breakdancing knives.

“Sorry! So sorry”, gasps a deep, staticky voice, and holy heck the airplane is speaking English. “Last phone I see with Vitya, it takes more energy than this, I…” Her poor, charred phone crackles with static again, and the jet offers it back with what has got to be the most repentant look any airplane has ever sported. “I really apologise.”

How the fuck has this become her life within less than an hour. It looks so sad, though. “No, no, it's okay! I just got startled. I can replace it, everything's backed up in the cloud anyway. Did you… um. Did you eat the English off it?”

It looks half confused and half like it wants to laugh. “What? No, I do not-- that is not how it works. I just copy data. Kolya and I only speak Russian -- Vitya, too, but his accent is bad. More like yours. Last time I wake up, you are little thing.” It smiles, impossibly warm, genuinely loving.  _ “Little, _ little”, it adds, narrowing two fingers -- it has six of them, what the heck -- into a  _ very _ small gap. “Only one year old, Vitya says.”

“And the rest of the time?”

“I stay in stasis. My injuries are complicated. Warping here takes too much energy, so I only online twice since leaving Russia. One for meeting Vitya. One for meeting you.”

“Oh", Charlie says, something warm blooming in her chest at the realisation that as important as it was to her dad, to her grandpa, they mattered just as much to it. "So you weren't alone?”

It looks at her like her grandfather did, and part of her aches, but the rest just feels as though coming home from a long journey. “No, little wing. Never alone.”

“Little wing, huh?” She smiles. “I like it. What do I call you, then? Aside from ‘Jet’.”

A tilt of its head. “Jet?”, it repeats, questioning. "Oh! Струйный, yes?” At her flat look it grins, eyes brightening, gestures at itself. “You know.  _ Struynya _ . Nyoom”, it says, hand sweeping up towards the sky.

Charlie chokes on a laugh, covering her face.  _ “Nyoom.  _ Oh my god, okay, yes."

“ _ Meka _ names are… not like human, yes? They have many meanings. I am… not good at languages”, it admits with a grimace. “Kolya listens to me explain for twenty minutes then laughs at me. He just calls me Storm. It is good enough. A…” It pauses, its head-thingies flicking again. “Petname. But Jet is good too.”

“And... Jetstorm? To sort of… y'know, not get rid of the one grandad gave you. And it sounds pretty fancy.”

It laughs, looking pleased. “That is true. It is a pretty name. I like it.”

“Alright. Jetstorm, then. Why did you wake up now? You said you got injured, do you feel worse than before?”

“No, no, not at all. I get transmission. Others like me have found the planet! I must contact them. They can help fix me.”

“So you're gonna leave?”, she asks, heart sinking.

Jetstorm looks torn, lowers itself closer to the ground, as though trying not to loom out of contrition. “Yes. But I can come back. Or…”

“...yeah?”

“You can come with me”, he offers, openly hopeful for someone with such alien features.

Charlie's eyes widen. “I can?”

“Yes! Prime cannot protest. Kolya is my  _ amica. _ You are family, little wing.”

It's the most overwhelming thing anyone's said to her in four years, and yet it's the most comforting, too. She loves her family, she  _ does, _ but she's felt so alone since her grandfather's passing. “Okay", she says, and grins when Jetstorm's wings flare excitedly like a happy bird's. Yes, please.”

  
  


The tentative relief doesn't last long. A few days later, just after dusk, the entire base goes into high alert as two Decepticons are detected on approach. They respond only with ID pings to Jazz's hails, not stopping until they're nearly at the gates.

Megatron rises silently from his spot in the medbay, head high, and walks out to meet them. For once, he doesn't look to any of the Autobots before he does.

They slip into root mode smoothly when they see him, Blackout landing as though stepping off a pedestal, Sideways’ body shifting like crystals taking form already sculpted, and stop as one.

“Lord Megatron”, they say, heads bowed. No one has been more loyal than Blackout, on par with Soundwave himself, and Sideways, though young, is a gifted warrior. Blackout and his conjunx have done well with him. Megatron lays his hand on the back of Sideways’ neck, feels the careful wave of control that spills through the mech's field, his absolute stillness.

A thousand sparks left in the universe, and each and every one of them knows nothing but the terror of him.

“Rise, my friends”, Megatron bides, edging on gentle, and refuses to let his regret bleed into his field.

Confusion is visible in their faces, though they obey nevertheless. “My liege?”, Blackout ventures.

Megatron wishes this were easier. “Things happened that… cannot be changed. It made me realise that we must be the ones that do.” He makes a pause to meet their optics. “The AllSpark is gone." Sideways’ field wavers, anguish taking over before he reins it in again, and Blackout's optics dim, his grief no less felt for all that it is quiet.

One of Megatron's hands finds Blackout's shoulder, and he weaves comfort into his and Sideways' fields as best as he can. The wisp of surprise that frissons through them both even as they lean into him for solace feels like a small death.

"What would you have us do now, Lord Megatron?", Sideways asks after a long moment, seeming to find his own strength again.

Megatron lets his hand fall, spark aching. "We lost our way long ago. Both sides. I see that now. You, though, my dearest, most loyal followers -- your only sin has been your devotion. Any crimes committed were in my stead, and so by my hand. They are my responsibility.”

“My Lord, no!”, they immediately protest. It's in every particle of their fields: they love him, they  _ trust _ him, they would follow him to the end of the world. Primus help him, but they believe in him more than enough to.

“They are”, Megatron refutes, painfully tender, and admitting this is his burden, his pride. He would take the weight of the universe if it were the cost of their loyalty. “My friends, restoring our home, our species, is more important. We cannot do it alone. I would have you join me, if your faith holds.”

Their concern is visible, especially so while in field contact, but it only takes a moment for Blackout to straighten his shoulders, and he looks at Megatron with determination burning in his optics. “I followed you to war, my lord. This is… strange, and troubling, but if it is a worthy cause -- if you truly believe this is the right path, I would join you in this new world you seek to give us.”

A wealth of gratitude he cannot put into words wells in Megatron's spark, and he touches Blackout's arm again, strokes his temple when Blackout lets his forehead fall to Megatron's hand.

_ I will not let you down again, _ Megatron vows silently, and turns to Sideways, who is looking at them with conflict and hope written on his face as clear as a wound. “Sideways?”

“Is this really a truce?”, he finally asks.

“Truce implies a finite endeavour", Megatron says, not unkindly. "This is a ceasefire. In time, it might be true peace.”

Sideways shakes his head, looks away. “I... find it hard to believe, my lord. So many of us barely know anything more than war, and our side was victim to atrocities just as much as anyone else.”

“Not one of us is innocent anymore, it is true", Megatron agrees quietly. Blackout presses against him one last time, then straightens, looks at the younger mech. "If you wish to make your own path, you are free to go. You will not be harmed, and we will give you what help we can.”

“I would wait by your side, if I can", Sideways says after a long moment, for the first time openly hesitant. "See for myself.”

“It's all I can ask", Megatron says. It is more than he deserves.

“Then I am yours, my lord", Sideways says, and bows.

“Thank you", Megatron says, rough with emotion. His spark swells with pride for this mech, so  _ young _ and yet so full of courage, but trailing that thought is something more troubling. "Are either of you injured? Do you know what was of Barricade?"

Blackout's rotors fan out restlessly. "Barricade was wounded during battle, though I don't know how severely -- he won't give me his location, and he refused to tell Sideways as well. He insisted we focused on finding you and retrieving Skorponok first."

"The stubborn glitch", Sideways mutters, allowing himself to relax now the gravitas of their reunion is eroding. It'd almost be enough to make Blackout smile, if he weren't so clearly concerned. "We know where Skorponok is, at least, and she's relatively safe, despite being badly damaged. Blackout--"

"I'm  _ fine", _ Blackout scowls.

"--got his side shot to slag, and I managed to repair it for the most part, but something's gone wrong with his cooling systems that I'm not qualified to even begin to figure out", Sideways says, speaking over the other mech's protests in a display of overprotective insolence that Megatron knows perfectly well he picked from Blackout himself. "I was  _ this _ close to making him stop about 50 kilometres back just to check he wasn't going to blow himself up from overheating."

Megatron nods, allowing the slightest hint of humour to show on his face at their bickering. "The humans will be able to retrieve Skorponok while Ratchet takes care of fixing you both. With some luck we'll have her and Barricade on-site within the week."

A flash of uncertainty passes through the two of them, though Sideways stays silent. “My lord, those are the creatures that tried to kill us. They held you prisoner.”

“It was their world we attacked", Megatron replies, because it's true. Blackout frowns, but Sideways' finials twitch thoughtfully, and he nods, acknowledging the point. "This is a strange time for everyone, but we are trying to learn to trust each other. They have been nothing but obliging, even considering our… difficult beginning.”

Blackout sighs, then inclines his head as well. “Alright."

A handful of humans are waiting for them inside the base, looking as wary of Blackout as he does of them. Sideways, on the other hand, gives the soldiers a polite nod, his finials tilted back with open curiosity, and gets an equally intrigued wave from one of the soldiers in response.

"New additions?", Lennox asks, glancing at his teammate as they break from the group to approach Sideways.

"Blackout and Sideways", Megatron confirms. "Two of my most reliable allies. There are two others I would appreciate your assistance in retrieving safely."

Lennox blinks, his brow twitching strangely, but he only nods. "Let's head inside proper and we'll figure something out. Yaser", he calls, and the soldier next to Sideways whirls around, snaps to attention, "show Sideways and Blackout where the medbay is. Ratchet will want a look at them."

  
  


There is no need for subtlety, so Sam is the one who asks. Mikaela takes Bumblebee out with her on a flimsy errand, and he hunts Jazz and Ratchet down.

Well, ‘hunt’ is kind of an exaggeration; though Ratchet had eventually relented and allowed Jazz to wander around the base, it’s still more common than not to find both of them in the makeshift medbay, and today is no exception.

Jazz is upside down on one of the beds and in the middle of throwing and catching something that looks like a twenty-sided die into the air above his head, and he sits up when he notices Sam, switches to spinning it between two fingers. "Oh, hey kiddo."

Ratchet doesn't turn around from his… whatever that weird thing on his work table is, but he nods distractedly in his direction as Sam hauls himself up the walkway stairs.

"Hi Jazz", Sam says, settles down between them with his legs swinging under the edge. "Feeling any better?"

“No idea”, Jazz sighs dramatically. “Ratch won't let me try backflips yet.”

“I will reformat you into an iPhone, so help me lizard god."

Sam muffles a grin, though Jazz is nowhere near as circumspect. "Hey, I got a question for you guys."

"Shoot, my man", Jazz says, head tilted back towards him.

"Do you guys have sign language?"

Jazz's visor flashes. "Have what now?"

“Y'know. Sign language", Sam says, gesturing vaguely, then immediately feeling like a bit of a dick for it. “Um, it's when people who can't talk speak with their hands.” In hindsight, he realises, there probably  _ aren't  _ any of them who can't communicate somehow.

Jazz perks up, though, and even Ratchet stops tinkering for a moment to look at Sam. “You wanna try it for Bee?”

Sam's face goes hot, though  _ hell _ if he knows why he feels so embarrassed all of a sudden. “Well, yeah? Kaela and I were thinking of trying with ASL -- the local sign language, I mean -- but we figured we'd, y'know, ask you first if you had your own version for us to learn or something.”

“Not... quite”, Ratchet says slowly, looking thoughtful. “We have chirolinguistics, which is a similar thing, but it's touch-based, not visual. Plus the size difference would make it impossible between you three.”

"Oh", Sam says, deflating a little.

“Your ASL might work, though", Jazz says, giving Sam a light smile, so unexpectedly earnest he can't help but feel reassured. "You got any lexicons I could download? I can make a proper language pack, send it to Bee when you two are ready to unveil the surprise.”

"That'd be great!", Sam beams. "Thanks, Jazz."

“Nah, it's no problem", Jazz replies, laying back down and shooting Sam his usual sunny grin. "You kids are good eggs. Thanks for looking out for our little goldbug.”

Sam shrugs, unable to stop the flustered little quirk of his mouth. "It's fine. He's a pretty good egg, himself."

  
  


It takes less than a week after getting cleared out of medbay for Jazz to commandeer not only part of a hangar and several soldiers, but also that techie who'd asked Secretary Keller to be assigned to the new NEST program,  _ and _ Blackout's kid. After a little over two months knowing the mech, Lennox is completely unsurprised.

They're making some sort of specialised communication tower to help them coordinate with the new Jarvis base, or so Ironhide had said; all everyone else really knows is that Sideways is excited and Yaser, Sargent, and Madsen are either geeking out or cursing Jazz -- and his nonexistent mother, his apparently shapely arse, and the mechanical horse he rode in on -- over it by turns. Somehow being aware the kid's as weird as the other four doesn't stop everyone else from having a fucking  _ heart attack _ when Sideways suddenly bolts out of the comm room and towards the base's entrance like a bat out of hell.

The gates open with a grating sound of metal on concrete, and Blackout comes in from overhead almost at the same time Optimus rolls through, a black and white mech on his flatbed and Ratchet close behind. They've barely come to a stop when the mech tries to stand up, and a tiny dark-haired girl pops out of Optimus' cabin like she just shot out of a jack-in-the-box while Ratchet transforms so fast it's a miracle he doesn't sprain something.

“Easy--  _ easy _ , you stubborn fuck, you're gonna mess up your repairs and they're held by duct tape and prayers.”

"That's what  _ I _ keep telling him! But  _ no, _ robot Swiss cheese over here never fucking  _ listens." _

“Cade!” Sideways rushes between them and a transforming Optimus to help Barricade stand up, almost vibrating with excitement.

“Told you they weren't keeping us hostage”, Blackout mutters on Barricade's other side, startling a laugh out of Optimus. Barricade makes a whirring noise that sounds  _ incredibly _ disgruntled, but doesn't argue, and leans a little against Sideways instead.

“It's not that bad, honest", Sideways assures him. "I'm working on a comm tower with the squishies, they're surprisingly good at maths. Who's this?”

Blackout smirks. “Proof that your creator is, as always, full of shit."

"Name's Verity", the girl says, slipping between Barricade's ankles to give Sideways a lazy salute. "Sideways, right? I car-napped your dad and then he kidnapped me."

Sideways laughs. "I like you already. When you say  _ car-napped, _ do you mean--?"

"Aren't you supposed to be being useful?”, Barricade interrupts, giving Sideways a rather pointed glare.

“Oh, don't worry, the girls got it", Sideways grins. "I just wanted to come say hi. See you later!"

"Exit sideways", Verity murmurs when he leaves, earning herself a snort from Ratchet.

"Scene."

_ 'AWFUL', _ Ironhide informs Ratchet through comms, and gets a very colourful glyph in return. Will watches Sideways enter the hangar again, lowers the new roster he's working on, tucked by the barracks' shade.

"Does it ever get weird?", he asks, looking up at Ironhide where he's leaning against the wall like a cowboy in an old movie. "Having been fighting them and suddenly they're just… people? People's kids, even?"

Ironhide shrugs, oddly at ease in the face of difficult questions as Will has come to realise he always is. "They always have been."

"Yeah, but…" Will exhales, clicks his tongue -- a habit he's picked up from Ironhide, ironically enough. "I don't know. I guess I didn't expect there to be 'Cons who were good kids. Even after the first few weeks."

"That's just how kids are when they get to live war free", Ironhide says, some mix of pragmatic and melancholic that makes Will's heart ache. Ironhide glances down at him after a moment, gives him a little half-smirk, just on the edge of kind. Like he understands. "It helps if you're not shooting at them, I hear."

Will snorts, glad to be snapped out of his looming funk. "Gee. Who'da thunk it."

There's no rest for the tired, however. The sound of jet engines and a dark silver shadow are the only warning they get before Megatron arrives, transforming as he lands near the little group by the entrance. Optimus shifts his stance without thinking, his frame aligned with the direction of Megatron's to stand as a pair, then goes so still it seems he's just had some critical malfunction. Megatron doesn't flinch, exactly, but something in the set of his shoulders makes him look like he's been slapped, even as he turns resolutely towards the other three, his face carefully neutral.

Thankfully Verity has yet to meet tension she couldn't cut through by not giving a shit. "Hey, gramps."

Megatron glances down at her, optic ridges raised. "Hello, squishy."

Verity snorts, looks up at Barricade. "Now I get why you like him."

"I have my uses", Megatron says dryly, and though he doesn't quite relax, his field loosens when Blackout and Ratchet huff with amusement. "I see you've made a friend, Barricade."

"She has her uses", Barricade agrees, optics sparkling with humour when Verity rolls her eyes.

Optimus makes a little click, catching Blackout's gaze. "Will you need further assistance getting Barricade to medbay?"

"I've got it from here", Ratchet waves him off. "You can get back to work, don't worry." Then, through comms,  _ 'And talk to Jazz about requisitioning you some chill.' _

_ 'Fuck off', _ Optimus sends back, murderously pleasant, barely nodding at the rest of the group before he leaves.

Verity narrows her eyes. "He sure got quiet fast, huh", she says, leaning against Barricade's foot.

"There is a lot to do", Megatron says, as though it isn't a blatant non-answer. Verity responds by showing she has very eloquent eyebrows, but doesn't press the issue.

"C'mon", says Ironhide abruptly, snapping Will out of his snooping. At this point getting in when Ironhide transforms and opens his driver's door is as much of a reflex as getting up at reveille, though he's surprised when Ironhide immediately makes for the mess. "That kid's about to pass out from hunger and those idiots have no fucking clue."

Will shuts his mouth around his now unnecessary question, then frowns and opens it again. "How the hell could you tell?"

"Scent. Her ghrelin levels are higher than a Seeker on nuke."

"That's... slightly horrifying", Will says, not sure what the hell half of that means, but not liking what he does get at all. "Are you telling me you can all  _ smell us _ to that point from that far away?"

"No, that level of keenness is usually just a medic thing -- helps with diagnosing, during surgery, the works. Dunno why I was sparked with it, but it was hell to deal with when I was new", Ironhide says. "Most of what we can all perceive doesn't have meaning, though. We can read the chemistry just fine, but we have no reference to interpret it."

"Huh. So how come you do?"

Will just  _ knows _ Ironhide would be shrugging if he weren't in alt. "Been learning your tells to pass the time."

Which is totally a lie, because now that he thinks about it, the bunch of rookies Ironhide had decided needed training a few weeks ago have been getting herded into taking better care of themselves. "Alright. So she really isn't scared of the 'Cons at all?"

"Nope", Ironhide says, stopping at the mess. "And they like her, too. So does Prime, for that matter."

Will raises his eyebrows, but gets out when Ironhide opens his door. "Well, then. She'll be in good company here."

  
  


It is a little like sinking, and a little like nothing at all.

It's a lot like the Matrix feels to Optimus, as well -- not so much a voice as it is an  _ awareness, _ impressions of feeling not dissimilar to those from coming online while spark-sharing. The echoes in it are wrenchingly familiar  _ (damini-anima-vox,  _ regret and understanding and  _ love), _ names and faces taking shape as something bigger than himself finds an anchor in his memory.

It is the love that hurts hardest, even in recharge. It warms him from within, heedless of time or distance, and it is so rare for him to feel warmth anymore. In his dreams it is cold, and burning, and he's so painfully alone.

In his dreams the stars are calling.

Megatron comes online with a full-body flinch, the part of him that will always be Magnus’ crying out in recognition as the name  ** _skyfire_ ** flares like a dying star in his spark, and it feels--

It feels like Anima.

It takes less than five minutes to get half the base on high alert and in medbay; it takes significantly longer to get everyone to  _ listen _ and stop trying to rationalise what Megatron just learnt from the AllSpark. Ratchet is, surprisingly, the first to believe him, and though Lennox looks for a moment as though he's about to walk out on them, he lets Megatron explain with far less objections than Optimus does.

"Alright", Jazz says after Megatron is done, shaking his head with a flash of his visor. "Okay, he's on Earth. How are we gonna do this?"

Optimus exhales. "The humans can--"

"I'm going to find him", Megatron cuts in sharply. "I can bring him back before--"

"You're  _ not _ going off on your own", Optimus snarls, so unexpectedly Sideways flinches and Lennox takes a step back, shooting the other bots a confused look.

Megatron's plating flattens, but he keeps his voice steady. "I'm the only one who  _ knows _ where he is, I'm not waiting for--"

“I'll go with him”, Ratchet says, and even the mask isn't enough to hide Optimus' expression.

"Ratchet--"

"Me too", Jazz interrupts. Optimus offlines his optics, sighs with so much frustration Jazz almost feels bad, and he adds, "Skyfire might still be alive--"

"He  _ is”, _ Megatron insists.

“Then he needs a medic even more urgently, and I've got better sensors than half everyone else combined. Ratch and I can go."

“Even so, you can't just carry him back", Optimus says tightly, and Megatron doesn't need to feel him to recognise how badly he's trying to keep himself in check after his earlier outburst. "He's a transport class starframe, and--"

“We could take him”, one of the new soldiers says unexpectedly -- Graham, according to his tag. Lennox raises an eyebrow, but doesn't stop him, and the man continues a little more certainly, glancing at Megatron, then Optimus. “He might not be big enough, but a Galaxy airlifter is.”

"Optimus", Megatron says, and Optimus turns to him with another slow breath. Their optics meet, blue on red and too much between them for this endless  _ nothing _ they've forced into place. “Please."

_It was my doing. He's their creation._ **_Please._** There's no point in trying to reach him through the bond, but the words are heavy in his spark nevertheless, corrosive as they creep up his lines.

Optimus turns away, halting enough it doesn't seem as abrupt, as  _ helpless _ as it is. He can't stand to look at him, can't bear to feel him  _ feel _ . “Fine. Fine.”

  
  


It's a tense, fast flight. Megatron rushes them north as soon as Ratchet is ready, the humans following after as fast as their engines will go. They arrive to the Arctic plains without complication; Jazz has barely jumped out of Megatron's hatch before Ratchet is giving them instructions against the locking that comes with extreme temperatures, except--

Megatron is standing very still where he transformed, plating shaking in a way that has nothing to do with the wind.

Jazz and Ratchet share a look, but stay silent, and when Jazz moves in search of the signal source he can feel Megatron's optics on him, hears him follow in that near-soundless way of his that used to scare the lights out of Hightower when he and Optimus first came online. It doesn't take him long to find the right point, and he marks the area with a quick projection from a couple of steps away, sends their updated coordinates to Epps and Graham. “Here.”

A curt nod is all the response he gets. Megatron runs a cursory scan over the ground, brings out one of his smaller cannons and blasts a hole big enough for Ultra Magnus to drive through with a single well-placed shot. Jazz half wants to make a snazzy comment, see if it distracts Megatron long enough for his field to smooth, but in the end he just vaults over the edge of the crater and into the cavern below, ice crystals following him down in an atonal little song.

The sight of Skyfire's ruined alt mode half-buried in a wall of ice takes every single word away from him, anyway.

Ratchet makes a noise upon seeing him that would render all curses moot -- just a quick little breath, like all the quick little deaths Jazz has given out throughout the war. He's at Skyfire's side in a second, cutting through the ice with a quick hissing arc of a surgical laser, and he plugs into Skyfire as soon as he finds a medical port. Behind him Jazz feels Megatron's field  _ flare, _ one desolate pulse that's there and gone again in an instant, but Ratchet snaps, "Jazz, help me get him out of here, I need him out of alt  _ yesterday", _ and by the time he looks again Megatron is by the crater's mouth, carving a way up into the ice.

Electricity crackling like the snap of a whip makes both of them turn around, weapons at the ready; Skyfire's optics online for a fraction of an instant, and starsong bursts from him in a desperate keen,  ** _"Silverbolt--"_ ** barely leaving his vocaliser before his biolights go terrifyingly dark.

He slumps in Ratchet's grip, only his quick reflexes keeping Skyfire from falling to the ground. Ratchet's face crumples into something wounded and far too complicated to understand, but it smooths into his customary frown soon enough. He holds Skyfire up without much difficulty, which is impressive even for Optimus' medic. Still, it's one thing for him to be able to stand without dropping Skyfire and another to actually drag the mech back to the surface, and he doesn't protest when Megatron takes Skyfire from him for the trek.

(Doesn't comment on how badly Megatron is trembling, since neither him nor Jazz have mentioned how badly Ratchet lost control of his field a moment ago.

Primus, they're all too  _ old _ for this shit.)

The humans are waiting a little ways from the crater as they ascend, and they're thankfully smart enough to get out of the way when Megatron helps Ratchet and Skyfire board. One of them, either very brave or very stupid, approaches as soon as they're settled; Megatron can hear them asking Ratchet what he needs them to help with as the airlifter prepares for takeoff.

His hands won't stop  _ shaking. _

Jazz touches his knee, catches his optics.

“Go”, he says softly, and feels his spark dim at the look on Megatron's face as he takes flight.

  
  


The base is too quiet, after.

Optimus stays in the half-completed comms room, watching the base's feeds. A few hours pass in silence, stretching dark and endless like underground rivers. Ironhide comes in briefly just before dawn, checking on him without bothering to pretend otherwise. His hands are cool as they stroke Optimus' face, and his field is familiar, soothing. There are few certainties left in the universe, but this love, this bond, is one Optimus can allow himself to trust.

When morning rises and the humans stir back to activity Ironhide goes, leaves Optimus to his silence with one last press of their foreheads. They are long past requiring words to understand each other. Blackout arrives not long after with two of Jazz's humans; Optimus greets them politely before he leaves, smiles back at the girls, so practised at hiding his unease he can almost fool himself, these days.

The night is coalescing when the airlifter appears, a dark speck in the horizon, but it is only hours later that Megatron returns, ozone and heat spilling off his frame, and makes for the medbay without a word, doesn't as much as look at anyone before he takes place by the medbay's entrance, unnaturally still, optics fixed unseeing on some point beyond the base, past himself.

On the overlook by the woods, Jazz watches Optimus sit on the cool, soft earth, watching his twin. He's spent over four million years worrying about Optimus Prime, had spent a lot longer than that caring for him and Megatron. This is the first time Jazz doesn't know how to help.

Optimus isn't coping, is the thing. He doesn't think -- no, he  _ knows _ \-- Optimus hadn't planned (hadn't  _ wanted) _ to survive his final battle with Megatron, even before it occurred. It makes his silence far more worrying than Megatron's obvious hurt at being shunned, and Jazz is sure if one were solved it would eventually lead to fixing the other.

“Am I in the wrong?” Optimus asks suddenly, surprising him as he turns to meet Jazz's optics. Jazz hadn't thought he was even aware of him being there. “All this time-- there was never a moment I didn't wish for him back. And now…”

“You wanted the past to have gone differently”, Jazz points out gently, as though anything could ever lessen the hurt, "not to deal with an even more complicated future.”

Optimus scoffs, bitterness turning the lines of his face into something sharp, painfully alien. Jazz wishes he weren't so familiar with it, nowadays. “Ruling pairs are not made for wanting.”

“No one really is", Jazz shrugs. "We need out of instinct, but wanting? Wanting is about the self. Identity.”

“You're saying it tells the truth about me”, Optimus says, sounding incredibly tired.

“I'm saying maybe you should stop thinking about what you  _ ought _ to want.” Silence stretches again, stubborn and bleeding, and Jazz is so  _ done _ watching the people he loves hurting like this. “When was the last time you actually felt without punishing yourself for it, Optimus?"

_ Viridian's farewell. Shockwave. The day Elita brought Rodimus to meet us. The last time I heard my  _ ipse _ sing. _ Optimus' spark aches with things unsaid, but he says instead, “I don't know.” The lie burns even as it leaves him, and he lets his optics go offline, vocaliser struggling around the knife that truth has become. “I don't think I can deal with what I would feel if I tried.”

There's spilled energon on his hands, across his mask, in his spark, tainting all he touches, corroding him from the inside. He doesn't know what will be left of him if he lets it bleed away.  _ Who _ will be left.

It is the one thing they all don't think about: Primes shouldn't be able to kill.

Jazz tamps down the knowledge, viciously so, gets close enough to take Optimus' hands, brings them to his own face as tenderly as he can.  _ I know you, _ he thinks, and lets the wave of terror and vast, incomprehensible grief that spills from Optimus' field wash over him, smooths a hand down the trembling planes of his back as Optimus breaks down, weeping in spark-shattering silence.  _ I know you, and I love you, and I will not let you go. _

“Then don't”, Jazz murmurs into his plating, soft as a last breath, “and until you're ready, leave him to me.”


	3. living simplified to longing

They begin transferring to the new NEST headquarters a few days after rescuing Skyfire. Megatron isn't certain whether Ratchet is trying to keep him under watch or wants to get the medbay set up before everyone else arrives; whatever the reason, it doesn't make finding himself bossed around by a mech a third of his size into helping load equipment, supplies, and an unconscious patient into the humans' transport any less bemusing.

Megatron had heard of Ratchet before the war, and had met him on a handful of occasions, but he'd never been close with the mech; if anything, they'd been distant acquaintances, linked through Optimus' presence in their lives. He'd known of Ratchet's clinic in Rodion's Dead End, though, and had done what he could to direct resources its way, even while knowing what little he managed to accomplish would never be enough.

It is disheartening, having gone through so much to end up trying to help the same lone medic, lightyears and eons away from home.

There is only so much heavy lifting to do, though. Once the base has started to settle under their weight, the little menial tasks Megatron can occupy himself with taper off, and eventually end, and he's left alone with too much time and not enough space, ghosts trailing his steps.

Ratchet finds him tracing fractals around the island two nights after their arrival, and sighs.

“Come on, then”, he says. There's no venom in his voice.

Megatron goes.

The sight of the medbay's interior throws him off, someone else's memories superimposed on his visuals. He can almost hear the muted hum of the regeneration tanks, feel the unexpected warmth surrounding him in place of the Dead End's subtle, pervasive chill.

(Can almost hear Deadlock's rough, quiet voice telling him of Gasket, of life in Rodion's underbelly, of the first time he got to glimpse what safety could be like.)

Almost. 

"You work fast", Megatron says, resolutely turning his back on the arch that leads to the recovery area and its sole current occupant, and gets a halfhearted shrug in response. Ratchet steps into a small room off the main bay, raises his voice to make himself heard over the din of things being pulled off shelves.

"I've had more free time the past two months than I'd had in my entire life." Then, with so much distaste Megatron knows what his face must look like even behind the wall: "It's the most excruciating thing I have ever experienced, and I dated Pharma for three decades. I'd rather keep busy than--" He stops talking abruptly, steps out wheeling a large cart in front of him. "Anyway. Sooner than not we'll be having new arrivals, and I have no illusions as to either anyone's state or their ability not to start slag with each other out of idiocy or cabin fever. Half who's still alive is due for a full physical, in any case, and I'd prefer to have somewhere to work before they show up.” Ratchet's optics focus on him, laser sharp and just as dangerous -- yet his gaze is assessing, not accusing. “How bad's your welding?”

Megatron thinks about it for a moment. “I have put myself back in one piece a couple of times. It was not pretty, however.”

Ratchet snorts, sends the cart his way with a push. “Aesthetics died about five minutes into the war. We have enough materials for a couple more tables; make sure they won't drop patients mid-surgery and it'll do.”

The cart rolls into his waiting grip, cool and heavy. Megatron nods, and sets to work.

  
  


The arrival of Starscream and his trine is what proves Ratchet right, because the universe is a cold, dark place and terrible things happen to good people, as far as he's concerned. The fact that a third of the humans are too enraptured by them to understand it for the calamity it really is doesn't exactly help.

"What the fuck", Watney breathes upon his first glimpse of Skywarp, eyes wide with wonder. "That guy's  _ purple." _

"He's also dumbass who couldn't find his way out of an open field", Ratchet mutters, pressed against Ironhide's side like a grumpy chartreuse cat, "but yes."

"Hey, between being a cool-looking dumbass or an ugly genius, I know which one I'd pick."

Not looking away from where she's logging the Seekers' arrival into NEST's database in Lennox's absence, Captain Faireborn snorts. "Clearly."

Watney squawks, indignant, and Martinez pats his shoulder over Xiao Long and Johanssen's snickering. "It's okay, we all agree you're pretty."

"It is your best quality", Xiao Long smirks. "Anyway, I'm more concerned by the shiny metal speedo deal they've all got going on."

Ironhide makes a sound like a wood chipper jamming, which they've all come to understand is what hysterical laughter sounds like from him, and Captain Faireborn shuts her eyes as though she's in physical pain.

"I hate that not only do I know what that means", Ratchet says flatly, "but I can actually  _ see it." _

"I hate that I'm tempted to look online for speedos large enough to gag-gift them", Watney says, and sends Ironhide laughing all over again.

There are, thankfully for Ratchet's sanity, no giant speedos to be had. There is unfortunately no place on the base where he's safe anymore, either. 

"I will reformat myself into a metrotitan and punt them  _ straight into the sun", _ Ratchet hisses the second Blackout enters the medbay, which explains both the mystery summons and why Thundercracker had showed up to his construction shift in the future hab area with a massive dent on his head. "Either you keep them busy and out of my medbay or I tear them down for parts and then chuck them into the fucking ocean for the fish to pee on."

Blackout raises an optic ridge, slides the door closed behind him. "I take it you're not a fan of airframes."

"Five of my creations are coalescent fliers and the other one learned to transform his own rotors into  _ swords _ ", Ratchet scowls, the irritation in his field about as glaring as his atrocious paintjob, "and even  _ they _ have never given me this much of an urge to hard-reboot myself and start a new life in the fucking Andes."

That explains... so many things, yet raises so many questions, Blackout thinks, though he's smarter than to tell the medic as much. "Alright, I'll bite. What's wrong with Starscream's trine?" Ratchet raises an optic ridge, unimpressed, and Blackout sighs, because there  _ is _ a rule about giving the mech straight lines. "Let me rephrase that: what are they doing to bother you so much?"

"Being here for  _ five days _ and having come in every single one of them asking me to examine them for  _ nonexistent slag _ , is what they're doing!", Ratchet explodes, seething so hard Blackout's half worried he'll start vibrating fast enough to centrifugue his own energon, "I'm trying to equip a functional and at least  _ partially  _ decent medbay out of scraps -- from a species that's barely started to figure out  _ interplanetary travel, _ may I fucking add -- and just today Skywarp's asked to be vaccinated against four different strains of the rust plague,  _ three of them extinct, _ as well as Gold Plastic Syndrome and the Cetagandan pox, Starscream wanted his coolant flushed for the third day in a row, and then Thundercracker tells me he thinks he got  _ parvo _ through Faireborn's vidcall with her fragging  _ dog!" _

It takes some effort, but Blackout gets his rotors to unlock and his optic ridges to stop trying to reach the ceiling without leaving his face. He's pretty surprised Thundercracker  _ survived _ that conversation, let alone walked away with just a dent, he has to admit.

"Right. First of all, thank you for not killing them", Blackout says, "even if I think we can agree that everyone's lives would've been significantly improved if you had."

"Don't tempt me", Ratchet mutters, though his shoulders relax a little.

Blackout's mouth twitches, but he nods. "Second, I don't know what they tried to do, but if someone volunteered to keep an eye on them while they visit Skyfire, I'm sure--"

"Wait, what?" Ratchet frowns. "What do you mean, 'while they visit Skyfire'?"

Thrown off, Blackout frowns back. "Isn't that what they're trying to do?"

"Why the hell would it be?", Ratchet asks, looking genuinely flabbergasted.

_ I regret every choice that has led me to an imminent conversation about Starscream's personal life, _ Blackout informs Barricade through their bond, because there is  _ nowhere _ near enough engex in the universe to make this something he would ever, in his life, want to happen.

_ Kill them, I'll be your alibi, _ Barricade replies, only partly joking. Blackout hates that two and a half million years in, it still makes him want to laugh.

He rubs a hand over his optics in a pointless little habit he's picked from the humans against his will, sighs. "Skyfire is Starscream's  _ amica. _ I don't know about the other two, but Skywarp seems to think the mech carved Luna Two on his fragging own, at least when he's overcharged enough, and Thundercracker gets in a mood if you try to talk about it." He takes a single look at Ratchet's face and resists the urge to groan. "They didn't even ask to see him, did they?"

Ratchet offlines his optics very slowly, quite clearly rooting deep within himself to find the tattered remains of his last shred of patience, whatever is left of it.

Having spent four million years in near-constant contact with Starscream and his lot, Blackout can relate.

"No", Ratchet finally says, running a hand down his face, "they fucking didn't. Listen, do me a solid -- let me deal with them after all. I'll even promise not to melt them down for their protomass."

_ NO LONGER MY PROBLEM, FRAG YEAH, _ Blackout crows, though he manages to keep a straight face despite Barricade's laughter. "As you please."

  
  


After the week they put him through, Ratchet's got more than a few choice words for Starscream's trine in mind, all of them far less polite than Blackout had been subjected to. Once he gets the Seeker in his medbay, though -- once he sees the way Starscream's gaze flits around the place and understands  _ why _ \-- it's as though they fizz and dissipate, an uncomfortably familiar feeling taking their place.

"You've got the combined wits of a fucking pogo stick", Ratchet tells him without preamble, because the alternative is feeling protective of the damned idiot. "Now, I'm gonna say this only  _ once, _ and you're going to nod if you understand, or fuck right off my medbay if you don't. Got it?"

One of Starscream's wings twitches minutely, then settles into a smooth, perfectly symmetrical line. He nods so deliberately it looks almost placid, and the fact that he manages to pack as much insolence in a single gesture as an entire dreadnought's crew would during a three-day mutiny would be impressive if it weren't  _ damn annoying, _ but Ratchet decides to let it slide. He sighs, uncrossing his arms.

"Right now Skyfire's in medically-induced stasis. He'll be down for at least another two weeks, at the very least; the cold and the loss of energon did a number on his systems that we don't have the supplies to treat efficiently, but can be handled by auto repair under the right conditions", Ratchet explains, turning his wrist to project Skyfire's schematics for Starscream to see, most of his frame highlighted as damaged.

It's not a question, but Starscream nods, attitude forgotten. His optics burn bright as the Fire Lakes as they take in Skyfire's vitals, an infinitesimal fragility to their crimson shine that Ratchet doesn't think he would be able to recognise if he hadn't seen it countless times before in other people's faces.

There is no language, he has learnt, quite as universal as grief.

"From now on you each get three hours' visiting time", Ratchet says, taking Starscream's attention away from the hologram as his optics snap to meet Ratchet's own. "Together or separately, that's your call, but there's no curfew as long as you don't get in the way while I work. However", he adds sternly, and heavens above, what  _ is _ it with sharp-faced airframes in his medbay managing to look sparkbreaking and dangerous at the same time? "The second Skyfire as much as gives a  _ hint _ of coming online, you're out. This, right now? This is about you three and whatever deal you've got going on. It's none of my business, and I don't want it to be. My patient's wellbeing is my priority, and until he explicitly asks to see you, once he's awake you and your trine stay the fuck away. Do I make myself clear?"

There's a moment, just after Ratchet's done -- a fraction of an instant, really -- when he's almost certain he knows what Starscream's thinking.

_ (What's the catch?, _ the battered mech had asked, amber optics as sharp as the lines of his frame, as the fangs peeking from his mouth;  _ what's the catch?, _ had demanded the jet, visor cracked and dim, all four of his brothers deep in the silence of the regen tanks.

_ What's the catch?) _

But Starscream doesn't ask. His mouth turns, instead, ticks up at the corner in an unexpectedly honest gesture. Tired, yet true. "Crystal."

  
  


The light of day is a distant notion as they set out through the woods, careful and quiet, dawn still hidden by a mantle of stars. Their steps mark the grass -- it cannot be avoided, no matter how gentle their pace -- but nothing is crushed under Bumblebee's feet.

He's grown into such a kind, noble spark. It fills Optimus with pride to think of it, a feeling so profound it feels alien even now, though whether it was the bleeding wreck of his and Megatron's bond or the constant, overwhelming grief that made it so, Optimus doesn't know. He could never truly process it, before -- can't really figure it out on his own now, either -- but he knows there is a tangible difference in his ability to feel things.

There are few clearer examples than what Bumblebee went through, just after they made contact with Sam and Mikaela.

He slows his steps, coming to a stop, and Bumblebee follows suit, curious. 

"I owe you an apology, Bumblebee", Optimus says, turning to look at the younger mech. "More than one, I think. I was remiss not to offer you one far sooner."

Bumblebee's finials tilt back, telegraphing his curiosity as he signs,  _ I don't understand, sir, _ in that clever language Mikaela and Sam had suggested he learn. His vocaliser is healing slowly but surely, Ratchet's careful work aided by his self-repair now that his systems aren't occupied trying to keep him in one piece through battle after endless battle, but its functionality is limited still.

"The night we made first contact", Optimus says, and when Bumblebee's doorwings stutter mid-movement he knows he understands, "I allowed Sector Seven to take you away."

_ Prime, _ Bee interrupts, his field even and his face kind, _ I am a soldier. I have always understood. _

It's so typical of him Optimus can't help his fond little huff, though his gaze remains serious. "Bumblebee, your willingness to go above and beyond your duty doesn't negate the fact that I failed at mine. I let a hostile species take you, and had things gone as I meant them to, I cannot say whether the others would have been able to rescue you or not."

At that, Bumblebee doesn't look hurt, exactly; he looks like he's been avoiding thinking about the topic, which is precisely the kind of thing he would do. He's not unlike Ironhide, in that aspect: willing to carry the weight of the world, but not to admit to the wounds left once it's gone.

Optimus tucks a careful fingertip under Bumblebee's chin, waits for him to meet his gaze again. "It doesn't matter whether you hold it against me, dear one. It matters that you know you deserved better, regardless of your role." Bumblebee tips his face so that it's cradled by Optimus' hand, his field a restless sea and his optics going offline. Optimus steps closer, brings Bumblebee's weight against his own frame with a gentle stroke down the back of Bumblebee's neck, taking the younger mech's hurt as best as he can, every atom in his frame a shelter. "I'm sorry, Bumblebee. I hope one day I can earn your trust again."

The woods are quiet in that restless way Earth has, life teeming beyond what their optics can perceive, ever-shifting. Optimus doesn't know how much time passes before Bumblebee's hand comes to rest on his wrist, the tips of his fingers settling on the edges of Optimus' plating just like he used to do when he was young, just as Chromia did with Ironhide and Windblade.

"When I was recovering after Tyger Pax's fall", Bumblebee says, his voice steady for all it's quiet, static laced into it in barely perceptible microfractures, "Ironhide was off planet, still, and Chromia was too deep in the fighting. Even Ratchet didn't have time for me, busy as he was saving other lives. But you came and stood by my tank every day. Just a few minutes. Only came in, touched the glass, and left, once."

Primus, Optimus could barely remember that. (It is a lie. He thinks about it every time he looks at Bee in the still moments, the thought quiet and poisonous and persistent in the background of his process queue,  _ brotherloverself, this is what we made of our world's children _ , and  _ not him, not him spark of my spark's, not him who Ironhide lives and loves for, not him who came abright while we plunged into the dark,  _ and  _ primus help me, strike me, guide me, I don't know whether to despair or be proud.) _ "I didn't know you knew about that."

"Teletraan One told me", Bumblebee explains, face tilting just far enough to meet his optics again. "She knew I had felt alone." It hits Optimus like a shot to the spark, like his  _ ipse _ burning from the inside. "You don't need to ask for my trust, or my forgiveness", he says, and he's so good, so  _ bright, _ how did the war not taint such kindness? "You've had them all along."

It is Optimus who has to shut his optics, then, leans down to press their foreheads together. "Thank you." It is a gift he can't ever put to words. For the first time in what feels like a whole life, he feels the sadness start to thaw.

  
  


Starscream and the others are not around when Skyfire does come back online, in the end, and Ratchet finds himself unexpectedly grateful for it. For all his bluster, he hadn't been looking forward to telling them to go.

The lack of onlookers also makes it easier to deal with Skyfire's immediate panic attack.

There must be others who find starsong beautiful, Ratchet knows, but all he can ever relate it with is terrified patients or grieving airframes. His relief upon receiving the alert from the monitoring systems is shattered by the devastating cry that follows it, Skyfire's frame shaking so violently it rattles the berth. His optics are wide, excess energy muddling their colour into a sickeningly bright blue when Ratchet dashes into the room, and there's a moment where Ratchet fears he won't recognise him.

Then, "Ratchet?", Skyfire croaks, brittle and full of static, and Ratchet feels his spark start spinning again.

"That's right. You're okay now, kid, it's fine", Ratchet says on autopilot, training taking over his processors while he gets himself under control. Skyfire looks uncertain, glancing around the room anxiously, but he lets Ratchet approach, and when their fields come into contact he slumps as though his frame's given up on him, grasps Ratchet's hand like a lifeline. "You were lost for a good while, but you're safe now, you're back with us."

"Where are we?", he asks, turning his wrist under Ratchet's coaxing to allow him access to the diagnostic port on the inside of his arm. "I don't-- the last thing I remember is falling towards Tonaltzintli-3. What happened to the AllSpark? Did you find--"

"I'll explain whatever you like after I make sure you're not going to collapse mid-conversation", Ratchet says firmly. Skyfire's wings twitch, but it'd be clear how exhausted he is even if Ratchet weren't already several layers deep in his system diagnostics, and he nods.

Skyfire's a remarkably well-behaved patient, at least; it's only a matter of minutes before Ratchet's gotten his energy distribution sorted, which helps with the fatigue and gets his optics and vocaliser working properly again.

As though trying to prove it, the second Ratchet disconnects Skyfire asks, "Where are Silverbolt and the rest? I don't feel them near, and we're clearly still in Tonaltzintli-3, the atmospheric readings are similar enough to--"

"I don't know", Ratchet interrupts bluntly, which would be mean on anyone else, but Ratchet's too used to thick-headed fliers who can't shut up unless smacked (be it literally or figuratively) to feel too bad about it. It works, either way, Skyfire's mouth closing with a worried chirr. "Last time I saw them was eight thousand years ago, when the last of the Ark teams separated; they were assigned to the LSC. And no, that timeline doesn't make sense", he adds as the frown on Skyfire's face deepens and he makes to speak again, "because you were offline for over ten thousand years."

Skyfire goes very, very still, his field drawn close to his frame. "Ten… thousand."

"On Tonalzintli-3, yes. Though humans -- the dominant species, that is -- call it Earth. The local star is named Sol." Ratchet crosses his arms, watches Skyfire's face as carefully as he's still monitoring his vitals, and continues, "The AllSpark crashed into this planet at the same time you did. So did Megatron, a short distance from you. It took a long time, but a human explorer eventually found him, and in time others found the Cube, too. We set out after you from the moment Aurum's signal went silent, but by the time we got within range of your last known location, you were gone, too."

There's a fractional ripple in Skyfire's field, tinting it with anguish as he nods quietly. "I was the only one left even before we reached Sol's system. I…" His voice breaks, a fine tremor creeping into his frame. "I  _ tried, _ Ratchet. I wasn't strong enough."

"You didn't have to be", Ratchet says softly. "You did enough. We were able to get to the AllSpark before Megatron did, after all. The war has been over for almost four months, now. It's just--" He sighs, runs a hand over his face, painfully aware of Skyfire's gaze on his every gesture. He can't help but wish he had something to tell Skyfire worth all he'd gone through, worth what they'd  _ all _ gone through.

As though that had ever existed.

This is the thing, though: there had been a reason Skyfire and Starscream had once been friends.

"Lodestar had a theory", Skyfire says slowly, "at the beginning of the war."

The non-sequitur throws him off, for a moment, but realisation sinks into him like a stone, and Ratchet sighs again, nods tiredly. "Yeah. Yeah, she did."

Skyfire offlines his optics, lets the back of his head hit the wall behind his berth, his wings a jagged angle that reminds Ratchet of Cybertron's ruined landscape. "She was right, wasn't she?"

"Degenerative Programming Corruption, I think she called it", Ratchet says quietly, as good as an affirmative. "Prime wasn't strong enough, either. It was a human who defeated Megatron, in the end; Optimus told him to push the Cube into  _ his _ spark chamber, but the kid went for Megatron instead. It was destroyed in the process."

"And Megatron was not", Skyfire says, bitterness heavy in his voice. "The one mech who deserved to die. Of course he fragging didn't."

He's not  _ wrong, _ is the thing, but it makes Ratchet's spark ache to hear him, all the same. He hesitates, just for a moment, then says carefully, "He isn't the only one. To survive the battle, that is. Starscream's trine arrived on Earth some weeks ago, and they've visited you as much as they were allowed." The minute flinch of Skyfire's shoulders makes Ratchet abruptly worried he's made a mistake, and he watches Skyfire carefully as he asks, "Should they not have?"

"I… no, I do not mind", Skyfire says, giving Ratchet an uncertain look. "It's merely…"

"The secret  _ amica _ thing?", Ratchet guesses, and Skyfire nods uncomfortably.

"It wasn't a secret, exactly. Silverbolt knew. So did the others, obviously", he adds, stealing a half-smile from Ratchet, "but things had been tense even the war started. They joined the Decepticons almost from day one, and it was… a point of contention, to put it mildly."

"With Starscream's shining personality, I can't imagine why", Ratchet says flatly, and earns himself a small, rueful laugh.

"He wasn't that bad. Or rather, he was, but it was kind of what made you like him."

"I think I'll take your word for it", Ratchet says, as though he hasn't found himself being dragged kicking and screaming into tolerating the fool, as of late. "They should be on site at the moment, you know. If you want them around."

The last traces of humour disappear from Skyfire's face, replaced once again by hesitation. “I… don't know if I should."

"Kiddo", Ratchet says, resisting the urge to sigh, "I think considering the circumstances, you're allowed not to give a fuck what people say about your friends."

Skyfire looks down at his hands, quiet. Something about the angle of his wings strikes Ratchet as painfully vulnerable, for all Skyfire's several times his size. "It's just", Skyfire says haltingly. "It's just Anima took me in when no one else wanted me, and the twins were the ones who taught me to fly, and the others always took care of me, and-- and like it or not, Starscream and the others were on the side that caused Praestes and Jetfire and Jetstorm's deaths, on the siege that caused  _ hers. _ " His voice fails, cracking into static like a stone through glass, and the conflict in his optics breaks Ratchet's spark all over again. "I can't do that to them. I can't betray them like that."

_ Airframes will be the death of me, _ Ratchet thinks, missing his handfuls of stardust so fiercely it feels like a tangible ache. "If they love you that much, don't you think they would forgive anything as long as you were happy?

Skyfire flicks his wings, restless and uncertain and so goddamn  _ young. _ They're all far too fucking young. “Yeah?”

“Yes", Ratchet says firmly, wishing he could pick all these fool children up and tuck them in a drawer, hide them somewhere safe where nothing else could hurt them again. "Skyfire, you went through some terrible things, and Starscream and the others clearly care about you. Your family wouldn't want you to go through it alone. Prime and the twins wouldn't have, either."

The silence stretches, then wavers, Skyfire's field relaxing as he makes his choice. “Okay”, he says, quietly, as though hoping it won't cost him any more hurt.

“Okay”, Ratchet agrees, and pings Starscream to bring his trinemates and come see their friend.

It only takes a couple of minutes for the medbay's gates to open, even less for the Seekers' surprisingly cautious faces to appear around the divider, so hesitant anyone else could have mistaken them for polite.

Skyfire's guarded expression cracks.

"You  _ idiot", _ Starscream snarls, that painful fragility back on his optics, and less than a second later the four of them are wrapped around each other on the berth, a shaking mess of wobbly wings and tangled arms and soft, crooning starsong.

Ratchet shakes his head, then leaves them to it.

They'll be alright.


	4. and it echoes in the self

It's the humming that wakes her up.

The sky is still dark outside when Verity opens her eyes, the room pleasantly warm in a way she hasn't quite gotten used to. Next to her (and above her, and partly under her), Skorponok is strategically covered in pillows, crooning so quietly Verity feels the vibrations of it more than she hears the actual sound.

"Hey, you", Verity murmurs through a jaw-splitting yawn, patting around until her hand falls on smooth metal rather than regulation bedding and stroking sleepily once she does. Skorponok makes a chirring sound, wiggles a little as Verity sits up. "Gah. Morning." She yawns again, even harder this time, and Skorponok clicks like a bagful of marbles bouncing on the floor. "Yeah, yeah, laugh it up. You coming?"

Skorponok shakes the pillows off, dwarfing the bunk as she stands and stretches to her full length. Verity gathers her pillows at the head of the bed, then smooths the blankets into some semblance of order that would probably give any of the NEST folks a stroke, but is more than good enough for her standards. The bot waits patiently for her to dress, passing Verity her backpack with a nudge of her tail when she's done, and humming some more while Verity does a check of its content.

Satisfied, Verity shoulders her bag and sets for the stairs.

It's not late enough for most of the soldiers to be up yet, and the few of them Verity crosses on her way down tend to keep a healthy distance from Skorponok, which is more than fine by both of them. She doesn't seem to mind anyone in uniform more than she does the Autobots, but she doesn't exactly like hanging around them, either. Considering her own experiences with people, Verity can relate.

The mechs' living areas are still being built, so it isn't rare to find them napping every few days on one of the medbay beds, or parked in vehicle mode in one of the hangars. Barricade only ever does the latter -- and in a specific corner of the storage hangar, at that -- no matter how much Sideways says he'd rather get shot in his sleep than give up getting to use a real bed again. Verity is half convinced he only says it to get a rise out of Barricade, because Blackout tends to flop down on rooftops at midday like a particularly pointy starfish, and Barricade never seems to think  _ he _ is a dumbass.

To be fair, it does work literally every time.

Still, this particular idiosyncrasy of Barricade's at least makes him incredibly easy to find. He doesn't turn his interior lights on when Verity climbs into his driver's seat, familiar as he is with her dislike of anything brighter than a black hole when she first wakes up, just wraps the seat belt around her with a click. There's a slight rocking movement as Skorponok slides into Barricade's boot, shutting after her. For all she might be Blackout's… unquantifiable animal-like companion, Skorponok sure likes to follow Barricade around. It's kinda cute, Verity thinks. 

Verity snuggles against the seat, tension slowly bleeding off her body. There's a difference to Barricade sleeping and his trying to pass off as a normal car, though almost two months later she still couldn't put her finger on  _ what _ it is for love or toffee. She just knows he isn't asleep right then.

A moment later, he tightens the seat belt around her a little, then loosens it again in his version of a nudge. "You dropped something the other day."

Verity blinks, puzzled. Her mind blanks as to what it could possibly be, especially considering how often she checks her backpack. "I did?"

"Mhm", Barricade says, loquacious as ever, and the compartment between his front seats pops open.

Verity stares, just for a moment, then bursts into giggles even as she reaches for the package inside. "How the hell did you manage to get a Gansito here?"

"Blackout got it when he went back to the continental base", Barricade says, gruff as always. Verity can still tell he's  _ extremely _ pleased with himself. "Confused the slag out of the guy he asked, or so he tells me."

"No shit", Verity laughs, bringing her knees up and opening the pastry. "God, you're the best."

"You're still having food later", Barricade warns, but it's lost under the loud, dramatic groan she makes when she takes her first bite.

"Shhh, Cade", she says around a mouthful of deliciously terrible chocolate and dry cake. A speck of jam and cream inevitably ends up on her nose, but that's just part of the experience. "The Gansito and I are having a moment."

She can just  _ feel _ the eyeroll he'd be giving her if he weren't a car right now. He does refrain from reminding her of the impending socialising in her future, though, his engine rumbling quietly.

"You and sleep have any moments?", Barricade asks. Verity's chewing slows, and she looks down at her boots, but manages to nod, feeling irrationally shy.

"Yeah. Skorponok's helped." She swallows, licks her lips. Bites the lower one, as well as the metaphorical bullet. "Thanks. Pretty sure I'd forgotten what it was like to live without a perma-headache."

Barricade huffs. "Just say something sooner next time. Scans ain't worth scrap if I don't know what the results  _ mean." _

The noise she makes in reply is more noncommittal than anyone else would probably like, but Barricade knows it for the affirmative it is. It  _ is _ part of their deal, after all. Even if she has no idea why he hasn't gotten rid of her now that he actually can. 

She doesn't want to think about that. Instead, she asks, curling back against the seat, "What about you? Sleeping okay?"

"Would be better if we weren't surrounded by fraggin' Autobots", he says, and Verity takes another bite to hide a smile at his bitchy tone, "but well enough, I guess."

It isn't the first time he says something of the sort. "Sideways seems to like them well enough. Hell, even Blackout doesn't mind them as much as he used to."

"Sideways and Blackout are more forgiving than I."

"Everyone who's ever lived has been more forgiving than you, my guy", Verity points out, "including the dude who invented divorce, then started decapitating his wives when he couldn't dump them." She gets another little huff -- which is not, she would like to note, any sort of disagreement. She briefly wonders if she's about to put her whole foot in it, then figures she's allowed some nosiness of her own after the sleep debacle from yesterday. "D'you wish you were still fighting?"

It takes long enough for Barricade to answer that Verity thinks he's just going to ignore her question, just as they both used to do when they'd first kidnapped each other. His heavy sigh startles her when it comes. "No. Anyone who thinks war is ever preferable needs putting down, especially after so fraggin' long. And it's nice to see Blackout not having to worry so much. Sideways, too, even if he has shit taste in friends."

"Then? What's the problem?"

"That I can't take the idea of them being hurt if it all goes to shit." It's so unexpectedly honest she doesn't know how to react -- though, no, that isn't quite right. Honesty is the  _ only _ thing she ever expects from Barricade, no matter how grudging or blunt; it's just… strange, to be trusted with something he's usually so private about.

She presses her cheek to the smooth black leather of his seat, the warmth of her skin bleeding into it. "Well. Whatever happens, If you need me, I'm here."

The seat belt tightens around her, just a bit. This time, he doesn't let go. "I know."

  
  


It doesn't surprise Megatron when Skyfire seeks him out. The base is anything but quiet nowadays, but it makes little difference when he can feel that increasingly familiar shift on the edge of his awareness. He thinks he might be attuned to Skyfire's spark frequency until either of them fades.

The medbay is empty, for once, with Ratchet in the mainland base. Megatron is the only one in the storage room when Skyfire enters, his steps uncommonly quiet for someone his size. The younger flier's optics flit to the crate Megatron had just been unloading, then to Megatron's face, frame so carefully neutral -- so unerringly, inescapably reminiscent of Magnus' mannerisms -- that Megatron has to keep unease from slipping into his own.

“Ratchet said”, he says after a long, guarded moment, “you knew I was alive because of Anima.”

“Yes”, Megatron admits.

Skyfire's wings don't move, though his head dips fractionally, almost as though to himself. “He also said you killed Jazz." The words are unceremonious, callous in the way of the uncaring rather than the deliberately cruel. It doesn't make them sting any less. "But you brought him back online, too."

_ Oh, Primus. _ Understanding strikes him as sharp as a knife, and selfishly -- impossibly -- he wishes for a moment for the warmth of Optimus' spark within his, for the strength they'd once lent each other when either of them failed.

All he has now is the awareness that he is alone. “I… am not sure how I did it. It wasn't deliberate, it wasn't even conscious. But it..." He's never felt this inarticulate in his life, but in a way it does not surprise him. It seems language is yet another love to disavow him. "What she and Damini and Vox did didn't bind them to the AllSpark like a sparkbond -- it made all of them something else, the Cube included. There isn't an Anima Prime to bring back online. There is only whatever they are now."

The silence following his words feels laden, unassuming as a sheathed blade. Then Skyfire asks, low, “Do you know their names?”

A chill spreads through him as understanding dawns, even though he knows he must withstand this. It is one more debt he cannot repay. “The AllSpark's guard.”

“There were seven of us. Symbolism or superstition, I don't know", Skyfire says. His voice is even, too intent to be cold, field kept close to his frame. "I was never very devout, myself, and at the time I wasn't in a state to ask. What I do know is that I was the only one left by the time you caught me.”

He cannot flinch. He's not allowed. Not in this. “I know.”

Skyfire holds his gaze, unbending as diamond. “Aurum. Carrera. Diode. Follow Up. Jetfire. Jetstorm. Tarn's last remaining priestess, Camena’s creation, Vox's  _ conjunx _ , Praxus’ chief archivist.” His optics break, field just barely under control. “Anima's trinemates. My carers, my  _ brothers. _ They lasted the longest, bought Diode and I time to escape. And in the end you killed her, too.”

He knows. He  _ knows. _ He remembers every single one of them, save for the last of the twins. He has no idea what happened to Jetfire after he fell through the wormhole. “I remember.”

“Good", Skyfire says, quiet and unrelenting as ice. "Because the day you try to forget, I will be here to remind you."

He doesn't look back when he leaves. Alone, Megatron sinks to his knees, and locks his frame to keep himself from shaking.

  
  


It turns out it's easier to buy car batteries in bulk for a giant robot to munch than to set up solar panels in the middle of the Great Frozen North, even when said giant robot is helping with the heavy lifting.

"I feel like there could be a joke here", Charlie says, flopped on the bed of her truck for an extremely needed break, "about getting you to run on potato power or vodka instead." She pauses. "Pretty sure granddad would come back from the grave to smack me if I did, though."

Jetstorm's head fins flick back in his version of a grin, the little pile of empty batteries at his side becoming harder to see in the growing dark of the evening. "I have you know, Carla Viktorovna, in Mother Russia--", he says with the thickest, most atrocious accent in the world, and Charlie starts laughing so hard she misses whatever the heck he actually says about Mother Russia. When she fails to stop for a solid three minutes, he pokes her side as delicately as he can so she'll uncover her eyes -- and immediately sends her off again by wiggling his fins like a  _ dork. _

"Jazz hands were a mistake", she wheezes, hands over her cramping face. "Cheese and rice, my sides hurt."

"You deserve it after that prank about accidentally cutting off your finger", Jetstorm says, dropping the accent -- as though he hadn't given her an elaborate and vaguely psychedelic description of the input he could get from his head fins last week, only to crack up and admit they were simply part of his auditory sensors he could also use for nonverbal communication.

His face when she'd held up that paint-smeared plastic thumb had been  _ hilarious, _ though.

"Worth it", Charlie decides, and snickers when he nudges her again with the tip of one finger. She wraps her arms around it, smiles when he scoops her up and places her on his chest like a human with a tiny kitten. His armour is warm despite the chill, thrumming under her in an electric lullaby, and his cupped hand protects her from the wind. Above them, as the light fades, the first stars start to appear. "Hey, Storm?"

"Yes?"

"Can you tell me about space?"

What she can see of his face twitches, though Charlie can't figure out what it looks like from this angle. "It was... tense. What with the genocidal maniac after us." The noise she makes must be alarming as hell, because he hastens to add, "But a lot of other times were better!"

"Uh,  _ yeah, _ I sure hope they were", Charlie says incredulously.

"It was not as terrible as it sounds", Jetstorm says, somewhere between sheepish and mollifying. "And it was nice before the war. When our brother was still too young to transform,  _ pares _ and I would take him flying, and transmit to our sister on land. We spent a full day in orbit, once, telling him of the stars, teaching him constellations."

Charlie turns her head, presses her cheek to his armour. Jetstorm's shown her pictures of them, a couple of times, even if he doesn't know how to translate their names to something he likes. "Which one was your favourite?"

"The… flame wings", Jetstorm says slowly, each syllable enunciated as though trying out their weight. There are things with no equivalent in human languages, but Charlie's grandfather had helped Jetstorm come up with words for certain things, before they left Russia. Twin. Leader. Maker. Dear one, for granddad throughout the years, and now for her, as well. "At the dawn of the world, you see, there were no fliers. Primus took the first warrior, who had fallen in battle, and raised her from the fires that flowed from the planet's core, giving her wings and life anew."

_ Oh. _ "A phoenix?", Charlie suggests softly, glancing towards the light of his eyes rather than his face. With the colour of his armour, he seems to fade into the night now the sun has gone, save for that blue glow.

Jetstorm's head shifts, just a little.  _ Eating the internet, _ Charlie thinks to herself, and smiles when he makes one of his pleased clicky noises. "Just like them. The story does not say what was of Phoenix, after, but it says the void saw what transpired, and vowed to keep her memory when she faded. And so when new stars came alight, it was in her image."

There's more stars than Charlie can count, now, scattered across the night sky like her mother's freckles. "Can you see it from here? The Phoenix?"

Silence stretches, lingers for a while. Eventually Jetstorm says, his voice quieter, "No. It was long before I came here that I left their reach."

Her eyes sting, and she curses herself for being such an easy crier yet again, even as she sits up to press against his cupped hand, as close to a hug as she can manage.

Heavens, what she wouldn't give to restore what he lost.

"I'm sorry, Jetstorm", she whispers, forehead pressed to warm metal.

Jetstorm's chest rumbles under her, his palm curling impossibly gently around her body. Whatever he's crooning is low and wordless and lovely, makes her skin break into goosebumps and her heart steady, slow. 

"Such is life, little wing", Jetstorm says softly, somehow without stopping the song. His words seem to bloom from it like ink in water. "I have you with me, now. It is enough."

  
  


Scavenger and the Autobot are two mismatched parentheses around the sparkling when Hook and Scrapper come in to check up on them, all three of them deep in recharge. Their brother is on the mend, which they already knew; it doesn't stop Hook from giving his welds another scan, just to reassure himself, nor from running a hand down Scavenger's arm when he stirs, far gentler than Hook would be were he awake. The 'Bot's frame all but hides the sparkling from view, but a little coppery foot is cupped in Scavenger's hand, as though he's worried they'll float off in their recharge.

Their brother's forehead is pressed to the Autobot's chest, his hand cradling the back of Scavenger's head much in the same way.

_ This is so fragging weird, _ Scrapper murmurs, leaning against the edge of the berth. Even without the bond to show Hook his brother's feelings, he's pretty sure his tone would say it all.

_ What is?, _ Hook asks, not looking up from the pad with the 'Bot's schematics -- or at least what little he'd managed to get from the idiot's heavily protected systems. If he ever crosses whoever taught him how to hack his medical interface suite, Hook's gonna have  _ words. _ And an aft-kicking. _ Him trying to save our lives, the kid being a freaking  _ Pretender, _ or the fact that it's been two weeks and he and Scav have yet to let go of each other? _

_ Ugh, Primus, I don't even know,  _ Scrapper groans. _ All of them? I mean, I'm as pleased as you are not to have kicked it back in there, but this whole thing's been… _

_ Weird, _ Hook sighs, and switches to the chip recording the sparkling's vitals. The kid is stable, now, which Hook is more relieved about than he'd like to admit. From their state when they'd first gotten them on board, he had been worried  _ they'd _ be the one not to make it, never mind Scavenger and Mixmaster's wounds and the massive hole on the Autobot's side.

Scrapper must be thinking along the same lines, because he says,  _ Little one's looking better, aren't they? _

_ Mm. That mass displacement stunt shot their alloy balance to slag, so I'm going to keep them on supplements until I like their densitometry scans, but their chamber's fully repaired. They'll be alright in a few more weeks.  _

Scrapper's optics soften.  _ That's good. _

His brother watches the sleeping trio while Hook sets everything back in place in the ship's cramped little medbay, Devastator's awareness a reassuring hum in their sparks. Hook's pretty sure the big guy's gotten fond of the kid, even if they've only been awake for about forty minutes in the past two weeks. Their guardian spark's always been a sucker for sparklings.

The fact that Devastator also seems suspiciously content whenever the Autobot is conscious long enough to snark at the rest of them is yet another thing Hook would rather not think about. 

On the berth, Scavenger shifts again, a nebulous wave of distress pulsing through their bond for a moment as his whole frame shudders. Scrapper's face falls, but just as he makes to touch their brother, the Autobot's engine starts to purr, low and soothing in a way that can't be anything but unconscious, and he tucks himself closer to Scavenger, both him and the sparkling gently pressed to their brother's frame.

Deep within their shared selves, Devastator  _ preens. _

Hook resets his vocaliser with a thin stream of static.  _ So. Slagging. Weird. _

_ Primus, I fragging know. _

  
  


What seems like the entire human contingent at Jarvis gathers to see Skyfire off the day he leaves, at least the ones not currently stuck in Blackout's  _ 'How Dare You Call That Blasphemy "Coding"' _ boot camp. It's been strange for them, Ratchet thinks, to meet an Autobot who isn't a raging extrovert -- not that it's stopped them from deciding to befriend him anyway. The video Jazz shared of Bumblebee throwing himself at his friend like the sparkling he hasn't been in millennia probably helped, but it still takes some bearings to ambush a starframe the size of a human house to drag him to a space-themed movie marathon.

It takes Skyfire almost an hour to run out of humans to say goodbye to, but he eventually turns to Ratchet with a slightly frazzled, pleased look. "If Saporta and Fireflight don't call dibs on each other--"

"Oh hells", Ratchet laughs, running a hand down his face, "don't even say it, I'll fuck off into space and you'll never hear from me again."

"Sure you will", Skyfire says, a wry tilt to his wings. It's good to see him smiling, for a change, but Ratchet thinks the journey will do him good. He still remembers how the kid got, back when they first met, and he's been through the smelter twice over again, since then.

Ratchet puts his hands on his hips, gives Skyfire his best threatening look. "Be careful out there, alright? No shenanigans."

"Ratchet, I've fought alien corsairs on my own."

"Which just illustrates my fucking point", Ratchet says, unimpressed. Skyfire's wings are perfectly still, but the corners of his mouth twitch, clearly biting back a smile, and Ratchet rolls his optics, fondness taking over his field. “Alright, get on with it, then." Surprisingly, Skyfire gets on one knee, low enough to pull him into a hug. Ratchet startles, but hugs him back, touching his temple to Skyfire's just like he would with any of his creations. "Safe travels, kid.”

Skyfire's field weaves with his own, just for a moment, before he steps back. "Fair skies."

There's a few gasps beyond the tarmac when he transforms, and rightly so; for all the mech behaves like a regular flier, starframes were noted for their size even back on Cybertron, and no matter how much mass he subspaces out of alt mode, Skyfire is larger than most. Ratchet steps back to a safe distance and lowers his audio input just as Skyfire's engines come to life with a deafening roar, the ground quaking slightly beneath them and the air seeming to distort with their heat.

Starscream's trine cuts across the sky the second Skyfire takes off, weaving playfully around him as he gains altitude, then spreading out like a flower blooming when he breaks the mesosphere, an otherworldly yet universally clear farewell:  _ We've got you. We'll be waiting for you. Be safe. _

In an instant, he is gone. 


	5. the world settles into concrete

Getting the comm tower satellites into orbit is altogether the easiest part of the plan. Once Captain Faireborn gives them the all-clear from higher up it takes the Seekers just a few hours to get them in place, which has the added benefit of removing Starscream from the base for a while before he sends Yaser, Maggie, Sargent, and Sideways into a tizzy with his running commentary, and means Blackout won't shoot the mech in the face for upsetting his kid, in turn.

Out of everything he likes about peacetime, seeing the younger mechs get to be as spoiled and cherished as they should have been all along has got to be Jazz's favourite bit, so far, even if it does mean having a supercilious helicopter popping in while they work every so often.

How utterly _ delightful _ humans are is definitely in the top five, though.

"You gotta do it", Maggie whispers, one hand gripping Yaser's sleeve and the other a nickel. "It likes you best! You gotta."

_ "Hell _ no." Caught between the slowly-booting central module and two hard-headed girls, Yaser tries to squirm away without pushing or kicking any of their irreplaceable, extremely expensive equipment down. "These fucks live forever, I'm not going down in robot history as the one who did it!"

"You do know we can hear you, right?", Sideways asks from a few metres away, not looking away from his datapad, as if his electromagnetics haven't been screaming for the past two days and he isn't checking the satellites' positions for the ninth time.

Perched on one of the junk-filled crates at the end of the room, Jazz grins. The more relaxed he acts, the more worked up they all seem to get, and he's quite frankly having a ball just watching them lose their marbles. 

"Zain", Sargent whispers urgently, grabbing Yaser by the shoulders and clearly still convinced the three of them are being subtle. "This isn't about you. This isn't about any of us. It's about _ humanity, _ and how if this doesn't work I will legitimately walk into the ocean and wait for the sweet mercy of _ death by drowning _ rather than get grilled by Blackout because we fucked up."

Sideways rolls his optics, but Yaser's eyes widen, colour leaving their face. Seeing them waver at the prospect of going through Barricade's boot camp again, Maggie goes for the kill, offering them the nickel with a solemnity that wouldn't look out of place on Optimus' face. "It's your destiny."

Behind them, the tower finishes booting up with a low, soft chime. Yaser groans, but grabs the nickel from her hand. "Ugh, _ fine." _

"What's this all about, again?", Jazz asks, more than aware of what it is about and just wanting to poke the combiner.

The three of them look distinctly uncomfortable, though Sargent opens her mouth to reply -- only to be interrupted by Sideways. "They're convinced no final prototype will work without being offered a sacrifice." Yaser squawks and bolts towards him, clearly intending to cover his mouth with their hands -- never mind that Sideways's face is two and a half metres higher than they can reach -- but Sideways only grins, sticking a hand out to keep the human away and continuing over Maggie's mortified noise and Sargent's loud facepalm. "The sacrifice has to be a particularly lucky item, otherwise--"

"It's entropy, you dick", Yaser groans, faceplanted on Sideways' palm at a 45 degree angle in the most bizarre picture of defeat. "We don't make the rules of the universe, we're merely their victims."

Sideways snorts, closing two fingers around Yaser, then goes to sit between Maggie and Sargent, human still in hand. "Uh huh. How could I forget? 'Computational functions can only exist in the presence of a luck-infused piece of nickel'. The most important of Vector Delta's Seven Laws."

"Listen, if you don't run calculations in sets of three you get pissy, pal, you don't get to judge _ our _ neuroses", Sargent says, though the poke she gives what she can reach of Sideways' leg (which isn't particularly far, the girl is _ tiny) _ takes away most of the bite.

Sideways' field takes a brief, incredibly embarrassed edge, but after a moment he nods, clicks his vocaliser. "Alright, that's fair. Give it here, then." He raises an upturned finger for Yaser, who hands him the nickel, looking surprised and relieved in equal measure. "Ready?"

"Psychologically, no", Maggie says honestly, and makes a little 'what can you do?' gesture when Jazz bursts into startled laughter, giving him a sheepish grin.

"Not physically, either, but eh. Punch it."

Sideways flicks his fingers, and the coin goes up, up, up, spins three times before falling and being immediately covered by his thumb. The humans lean forward with bated breath, and Jazz struggles not to smile as Yaser makes up their mind.

"Okay." They exhale heavily, nod to themselves. "Alright. Tails."

Maggie bounces in place, biting her lip, and she and Sargent turn towards Sideways like wide-eyed sunflowers. Sideways lifts his thumb, shows them the coin. "Tails."

The humans _ scream, _ both girls launching themselves into what's got to be the world's most ear-splitting hug, and Yaser flops back onto Sideways' hand like they just survived getting flattened by a drunken Seeker, holding their chest dramatically with one hand while Sideways laughs so hard his finials look ready to take off towards space.

"Oh god, okay, hold on, Gansey sent me the cutest washi tape just for this moment, that nerd", Sargent says, rummaging for it in her fatigues' pocket. "Ta-da!"

"Pretty cute", Jazz agrees, visor flashing when she shoots him finger guns and a wink at him. Sargent cuts two perfectly straight pieces of tape with her pink butterfly knife -- an old gift from her stepdad, she'd informed them -- and presses the nickel onto the corner of the central module, tiny planets on a black background holding it in place.

"Hey, is that glow in the dark tape?", Yaser asks, breathing normally once more.

"Hell yeah it is."

_ "Awesome." _

Humans are Jazz's favourite species _ ever. _ "We good to go, then?"

"Ayup!", Maggie says with a bob of her head, still a little hyped up on adrenaline. "Locked and ready for loading."

"I… don't think that's _ quite _ how it goes."

Jazz ignores their shenanigans, for once, reaching into the subspace pocket on the inside of his arm with a showy flick of his wrist, easy as transforming. The small brass sphere that falls onto his waiting hand is just as familiar, if not quite as painless a reminder, and he runs his thumb over the smooth channels carved by the engravings on its surface.

_ Greetings from Earth, _ he thinks, and presses one of its dots so it transforms in his hand, turns the resulting bands into a specific alignment. _ Wish you were here. _ Sink the panels, turn more bands, press a sequence, spin and touch and push and twist.

_ (Primus, how I wish you were here.) _

The puzzle pulls into itself, then expands, pieces suspended by wire-thin lines, the sum of them far larger than they seemed as a whole, and Jazz takes out the tiny data chip held static at their core, careful not to damage them. The very instant he pulls the chip out, the turnbox collapses back into a sphere.

All in all, the whole thing takes about six seconds; when he looks up, slipping it back into subspace, none of the others have as much as glanced in his direction. They scoot out of the way when he approaches, though, four pairs of intrigued optics watching as he holds the chip before the central module's port and sends a pulse for it to scan.

Maggie gasps when the chip reconfigures in his palm, which is kind of adorable -- you'd figure compared to an entire alien species defined by transformation, universal data holders would be small change, but the little _ 'eee' _ noise she makes indicates otherwise. The outer shell of the chip shifts into a flat, sturdy block no larger than Sargent's hand, the single connector at its centre a perfect fit for the port.

The sudden snap of displaced air, ironically, doesn't make any of the humans startle, used as they are to Skywarp's constant jumps. Skywarp sits down behind Jazz, careful not to hurt the girls, and Xiao Long hoists herself out of Skywarp's cockpit to drop onto his knee and bend down to high-five Sargent. Watney stays behind, shooting lazy fingerguns at the rest from behind the glass. "Have you started yet?"

"Only just", Jazz says. Zimmerman looks down from Skywarp's shoulder with some apprehension, so Sideways raises the hand still holding Yaser to help him down next to Xiao Long, getting a rueful smile from the rookie._ 'No Screamer today?' _

_ 'He and TC got a bit distracted', _ Skywarp says, wings angled in a way that makes it quite clear what kind of distraction it was. _ 'I'm here to sow fear in his name instead.' _ Covered in tiny pilots as he is, the mech has never looked less fearsome. Going by his pleased grin, Skywarp is very much aware and entirely fine with it.

The secondary monitors come online as one, a black and white gradient lighting them in a smooth line, and from the module's speakers, a beautiful voice says in Cybertronian, _ "Seventh floor." _

Jazz's spark slows, a joy so strong it hurts lighting him from the inside. The world doesn't narrow to this, only, but it all seems a little bit easier, just like that. _ "Third window." _

_ "The sky?" _

_ "A binary." _

_ "And his hands?" _

_ "Keep flying away from him." _

_ "Identity confirmed. Activating integration protocols", _ the AI says, and the central screen coalesces into a line of gold, all others breaking into smaller segments of base feeds and satellite shots. There might not be a face in them, but Jazz can hear the smile as they speak in English this time. "Hello, Jazz."

"Teletraan, sweetspark", Jazz says, field blooming with happiness, and feels the surprise washing over Sideways' own at the name. "Welcome to Earth."

"It is quite blue", Teletraan says, sounding pleasantly surprised. "We've made new friends?"

"Quite a few." Jazz turns to his team, pride in his gaze and his voice. "Sideways, Maggie, Zain, Blue -- this Teletraan-II. Tel, baby, these are the folks who made your new hardware. The big guy behind me is Skywarp, and his passengers are Yang, Mark, and Elijah."

"Teletraan?" Sideways' finals are tilted so far back the tips are out of sight, his optics wide as Yaser's head, going back and forth from Jazz to Teletraan's setup like he's never seen either of them. "Alpha Trion's Teletraan? I thought you'd been lost with the _ Ark." _

"I was", Teletraan says, "I got better." Skywarp laughs, sounding a little shell-shocked, but Teletraan's gradient widens, pleased. "Network integration should be complete in seven point four minutes. Five new users have been logged and marked for review." Teletraan pauses, then adds, "Incoming emergency transmission detected, coordinates 63.788889, -150.19--"

Jazz's field staggers out of array, and the latter half of the coordinates as well as Sideways' bewildered noise are lost to him as he resets his audials, the humans exploding into hushed whispers among each other. _ "Local?" _

"Yes." Teletraan's main screen shifts into a waveform and a map of the transmission source, and _ Primus, _ what the hell is it with this planet and the slagging Arctic? "Should I--?"

"Patch it through", Jazz says immediately, pinging Megatron to get his aft there in the same breath.

_ "--lite Guard Lieutenant Jetstorm of Maitedan, Second Wing. Flight capability lost, requesting medical assistance and retrieval ASAP. Please respond. This is Elite Guard Lieutenant Jestorm of Maitedan, Second Wing--" _

"Maker's spark", Sideways whispers.

"Did he just say Jetstorm?", Skywarp asks.

"Someone crashed in the Arctic _ again?", _ demands Xiao Long incredulously, and Yaser and Maggie freeze.

Sargent's mouth drops open. "Oh my god, it's _ true. _ You all have the most terrible HR management _ ever." _

"Should we get Captain Faireborn on the line?", Zimmerman asks, a little wide-eyed. "Tell her to request an airlifter?"

Skywarp's wings shift, something about their angle making sirens ring in Jazz's mind. "Don't worry, we won't need it."

Watney's eyebrows raise. “Come again?”

The echoing crack of displaced air is the only warning they get before a _ giant purple robot _ appears out of nowhere in her backyard. "Sup."

"What the--", Charlie shrieks, and Jetstorm's hands barely manage to cup around her before they're warped away.

_ 'U-HAUL TRUCKS _ ** _HATE _ ** _ HIM!!!! Local Robot Can Fucking Teleport At Will',_ announce Lennox's phone notifications for the Jarvis messaging group.

With a profound sense of dread, he unlocks the screen and opens Watney's picture.

There's a _ massive _ bot Lennox doesn't recognise standing on the tarmac of the island base, a brown-haired woman cradled on their hand and apparently in the middle of yelling at Skywarp, if the accusing finger pointing the Seeker's way is any indication.

His phone buzzes again, this time with a message from Xiao Long. _ 'In Soviet Russia, airplane fly you.' _

Next to his spot on the walkway, Optimus' optics widen before he turns to look at Lennox, exasperation and gladness clearly warring on his face.

"New arrival?", Lennox asks dryly.

Optimus sighs -- softly, but with a lot of feeling. From the way his antennae tilt, though, Lennox is sure he's biting back a smile under his mask.

To say things are a little awkward in medbay would be an insult to understatements.

"He's not coming back until I say he can, kid, stop glaring holes into my goddamn door", Ratchet says, not looking away from the frankly staggering amount of wiring he's currently removing from Jetstorm's side. Charlie's only response is to frown harder, apparently trying to keep Megatron away by the force of her rage alone -- never mind the fact that he's probably off angsting in the Sahara right now, after Jetstorm's reaction and her subsequent shouting.

For someone that small, the kid sure as hell can scream.

Jetstorm clicks at her, so blatantly fond Ratchet would swear he's listening to Ironhide with a sparkling, not an _ aegis _ that makes Kup seem like an newspark with a pint-sized organic. "It's okay, little wing. Ratchet can be trusted."

Charlie makes a face, though she does turn away from the entry. "Sounds fake, but okay." With so much faulty wiring at play the kid's restricted to the walkway above, just in case. She's sitting as close to Jetstorm as she can, all the same, legs crossed under her body. She peers down at them curiously, biting her lower lip when Ratchet starts replacing the damaged cables, the still-charred metal below looking even worse in contrast to the clean new lines. "Could you tell me what you're doing?"

"You gonna start yelling again if I do?", Ratchet asks. Jetstorm's wing twitches under his hand when he tests the connections on the first layer, bringing a brief wash of relief with it.

Charlie slumps onto the railing, chin tucked self-consciously into her folded arms. "No. That was rude of me. I'm sorry, it's been… kind of a day."

"Yeah, I can imagine", Ratchet says, a little softer this time. He raises his optics for a moment, just long enough to meet her gaze before focusing back on his work. "Tell you what; you let me call Retes so she can check you over, and I'll tell you all you want while I start on your friend's arm."

After a moment's hesitation, Charlie's shoulders smooth down, and she nods, something that's almost a smile on her face. "Yeah. Okay."

Later, when she's been given the all-clear and what seems like the world's best sandwiches -- which may or may not be because she hadn't had breakfast yet when they got kidnapped, and it's now almost three in the afternoon back home -- by a soft-spoken human doctor with biceps the size of Charlie's thighs, Charlie watches Ratchet remove Jetstorm's armour piece by piece, scanning every layer as it is revealed, scraping small samples of metal here and there. A tiny bit of tomato falls away when she takes a bite of her second sandwich, prompting an even tinier noise from her and a sunny look from Jetstorm when he notices what she's looking at down on the ground.

"Good?"

"So good", she nods, giving the lost tomato a regretful look. "I may forgive them for kidnapping us just for this."

"You did ask for assistance", Ratchet says, not quite as caustic as before. His face is different than Jetstorm's, and harder to read without fins or wings to hint at his mood, but she's pretty sure he's teasing her.

"A Decepticon warping in unannounced and grabbing us without explanation wasn't _ quite _ what we had in mind", Jetstorm says dryly. Charlie's delighted to find he's a lot better at snarking now that another mech -- Jazz, she recalls -- sent him a language program to add to what he'd figured out on his own.

Ratchet snorts. "The kid volunteered. Skyfire talks a lot about you, apparently."

_ "Ugh", _ Jetstorm groans, unable to slump with his motor controls locked, but still managing a fairly decent sulk. "Can you at least not remind me I missed the brother I spent seventy years mourning by literally only _ three days, _ since you won't even let me go after him?"

"See, you say that as though it was ever a fucking option", Ratchet says, pleasant as a loaded trap and just as full of threat. "Even if you were flight-capable right now, we both know you could have set out only half a day after him and _ still _ wouldn't be able to reach him, so get your panties out of their fragging twist."

Charlie tilts her head, apparently as susceptible to adopting Cybertronian mannerisms as every other human is turning out to be -- though, to be fair, even the Decepticons aren't faring much better with human quirks. The curse of being a social species, Ratchet guesses. "Why wouldn't he be? They both managed to reach Earth even with that prick chasing them."

"Your mech's big for an atmospheric flier, but a Seeker's a Seeker no matter how large they are", Ratchet replies, turning back to the alloy samples he's collecting and refusing to acknowledge the Megatron comment -- he has _ more _ than enough slag on his plate right now, thank you very much. "All the mods in the world can't change your frametype, and starframes were _ made _ for efficient space travel. Hell, he could have left first and Skyfire would've still overtaken him in a couple of days."

"Then why did you all get sent on the same mission?", Charlie asks, frowning. "Wouldn't it have been better to just have starframes?"

"Because it was voluntary, for starters." Ratchet frowns back, even if he can't look away from Jetstorm's spinal cord right then.

"We… didn't really get sent anywhere", Jetstorm says, sounding _ supremely _ uncomfortable in a way Ratchet is far too used to hearing from squirrelly patients. "We followed the AllSpark as it travelled, but we weren't intended to intervene -- we were its protectors, not its guides. We set fake trails for Megatron to follow, diverted obstacles from its path. Tried to stop others from approaching."

"So you're telling me", Charlie says slowly, "it was pretty much a suicide mission?"

Jetstorm opens his mouth, then closes it again, his field going fuzzy with wariness. "It… could be considered as such. From a certain point of view."

"Huh. Okay." Then, before Jetstorm can even react, she turns to Ratchet and demands, "Are there psychiatrists on Cybertron? Did any of them make it here? If not, I don't care, I want a human one for him the second he's fixed." Ratchet bursts out laughing, pleasantly surprised, and Jetstorm makes a wordless sound that has Charlie's gaze both gentling and turning stern on him. "Non negotiable, Nyoom."

"I wouldn't dare, _ iskorka moya", _ Jetstorm smiles. Affection and comfort smooth away the shock in his field, turn it into something bright and warm as the island's sunrises.

No wonder he's so fond of the girl, if she's this protective of him, Ratchet thinks, and shoots the kid a wry smile. "I think something can be arranged."

The slam of Roadbuster's back against the ground sends a loud, unpleasant echo ringing throughout the room. It's a contrast to the subtly pleased angle of Windblade's wings, which widens into a smile when Roadbuster raises a hand to flip her off, yielding the match.

"Frag me with a lead pipe", Roadbuster groans, but accepts the hand up she offers him.

"When you recover, perhaps", Windblade says affably, and evades with a laugh when Roadbuster swats the air in her direction as he leaves the mats.

They're two weeks out from the location marked by Optimus' beacon, over eight months since their last serious mission, and everyone is itching to blow off some steam. Until they're close enough for midwave transmissions, there's no way to know what they'll find; it's simply more efficient to prepare only a recon team, then add to it if necessary, and it has the added bonus of giving them all a reason to tussle.

It's not like _ any _ of them are designed for stealth, after all. Might as well have fun figuring out who gets to go planetside.

"Alright, two spots left", Springer announces, suppressing a smirk as credits finish not-so-discreetly passing hands in the aftermath of Windblade and Roadbuster's match. "Arcee, you're up."

"Oh, my", Topspin murmurs, swooning dramatically onto Sunstreaker's lap. Arcee grins, all three of her frames skating onto the mats in shamelessly flashy tandem, getting Topspin more than a couple of wolf whistles and a teasing jab from Twin Twist with her antics.

"At last, cityspeaker", Arcee's furthest unit says, mock-darkly, "we meet once again."

"Over two dozen minutes", Windblade replies, wings held so dramatically stiff it'll be a wonder if she doesn't lock them by accident, "and you have yet to learn. Back down while you can, little mech, and maybe--"

"Springer?", says Rotorstorm through ship-wide comms, interrupting the impromptu opera unfolding in the ring. "We're being hailed by…" Rotorstorm falters, then says, disbelieving, "By Teletraan-II. Mass communication, tagged urgent."

The wave of shock that bursts from every mech in the room would make anyone else stagger, but Springer's too used to handling them to flinch at the onslaught on his electromagnetics. "Patch it through."

Optimus' voice is unequivocally familiar. The words, however, are the last thing they could have predicted.

_ "There is no victory in war. This is a truth we have known from the first dawn, and now we live and learn it yet again. I pray with all my light that it may be the last time. _

_ "The AllSpark is gone. Lord Megatron has accepted our entreat for peace. As of this moment, all hostilities between the former Autobot and Decepticon factions will permanently cease. The Cube has been destroyed, but it has brought us one more chance at life: with the war over, so is the divide between us. We are Autobots and Decepticons no longer, but the last children of Cybertron, scattered across the universe. _

_ "I am Optimus of Iacon, Prime Regnant, _ conjunx ipse _ to the Lord High Protector Megatron, and I send this message to any surviving Cybertronians taking refuge among the stars: We are here. We are waiting. We are one." _

The room explodes into noise.

"What the _ frag?" _

"Did he just use Megatron's full designation?"

"The AllSpark's gone? Just like that?"

"Rotorstorm, anything on the source?", Springer demands over the din.

Rotorstorm's voice wavers, but it is uncomfortably certain. "It's legit. I ran it against every single record in my database, it checks out. It's Optimus Prime."

Springer lets out an incredulous breath, raises an arm just in time for Jolt to slam onto his side, shaking. One third of Arcee immediately wraps herself around the younger mech, and Springer pulls them as close as they need him to, field enveloping theirs. "A _ ceasefire. _Primus frag. Signal still coming from the Tonalzintli system?"

"Yeah, third planet. A little blue dot with a single moon, from what we've got so far. Mostly ocean."

"It got a name?"

There's a pause as she checks the transmission's data, then a more marked silence. When she speaks again, it is completely flat. "The local species calls it _ Earth." _

"...didn't you just say it was a wet world?"

"Apparently they're as bad as Percy's boyfriend at naming slag."

"I see hostilities _ within _ factions haven't ceased", Perceptor says dryly, and it's enough to get scattered chuckles from everyone in the room, some of the tension easing.

"Alright. Ro, set controls on autopilot and get here", Springer orders, and Rotorstorm logs off with an acknowledgment ping, the single glyph tinged with quiet gratitude.

Even Drift looks rattled when Springer turns to face the other Wreckers, his and Perceptor's frames fitted like living armour around Windblade. Strongarm has Pyro tucked against her chest, the rest of Arcee bridging the space between them and the twins; Leadfoot and Sunstreaker bookend the group on one side, Sandstorm and Roadbuster on the other. Rotorstorm slips into the room with a harried look, and is promptly pulled between Sandstorm and Topspin, which has her rotors relaxing, at least.

Just for a moment, Springer misses Kup more than he's missed anything in his life.

Kup isn't here now, though; his team is. Springer can't afford a deep breath, not when they need him like this, and so his voice is steady, his field even around Arcee and Jolt. "Alright, two choices: pile up in the bay and have at what's left of the engex Perce and Jolt definitely didn't make, or run sims 'til your frames give up and you can't think about this slag any longer. Pick your poison."

There's a half second's consideration -- likely a lot of quickfire comms exchanged, as well -- and then: "Counter offer", Sandstorm says. "We run the Entra course, and if we win, we get to drag you with us to drink."

Springer can't help the little twitch of his rotors, even if he manages to keep down a ridiculous smile, turning it into something playful and a bit arrogant. _ "If _ you win." Predictably, half the team jeers, optics brighter already in anticipation of the challenge. Even Sunstreaker's face allows the slightest of smirks. "Computer, start training simulation Entra, variant K-17."

"Acknowledged", the Xantium's virtual intelligence replies. Arcee grabs Jolt's hand and pulls him towards the others, little electric sparks arcing from Jolt's free hand as he rocks on his wheels, anxiety forgotten, or at least set aside for now. Around Springer, the crumbling remains of a long-abandoned industrial complex rise from the hardlight emitters. He takes a deliberate step back, then another, and finds himself thrown into absolute darkness, nothing to break it but his own biolights. "Sequence starting in three…"

_ 'Ready or not...', _ Sunstreaker croons through the group link.

The sound of several transformations rings overhead; Springer can pinpoint at least four of the mechs speeding past him, is fairly certain he can hear Pyro following closely.

"Two…"

The twins are too Urayan not to use the location to their advantage, and Perceptor's likely finding himself a nice perch while the rest take place on the ground.

_ 'Here we come', _ Arcee says, her units echoing the words above and around him, out of Springer's sight.

"One."

In the dark of the simulated transport tunnel, Springer grins. _ 'Bring it.' _

"Begin", says the VI, and as the tunnel entrance is blasted to pieces, he's off.


	6. softly, softly

Convergence beacons aren't very fancy. They're the simplest kind there is, in fact, nothing but a marker set to a specific spark frequency, calling anyone who knows what to listen for; the only interesting thing about them is how even Elita One gave up trying to stop Optimus from using them ages ago.

"Huh", Wing says all the same, replaying the low, echoing tune on his console after Blaster relays it to the rest of the conn, because he's clearly behind on his Being Unfathomable quota.

Obligingly, Hound turns around to ask, "What is it?"

"Do you think…", Wing says, considering, then fails to actually  _ elaborate. _

"I am begging you", Blades groans, slumping back in her seat, "for once in your life just get on with it."

"Bet he's heard that one before", Seachange mumbles, his sleepy face pressed to Rodimus' chest, and the entire control station bursts into varying degrees of horrified laughter.

Wing tilts his head back as though begging the stars for deliverance, even if the way his shoulders are shaking with amusement make his dramatics rather ineffective. Next to him, Blaster's hands do a very poor job to muffle his wheezing. "I am  _ so _ glad Magnus is off shift."

"I'm so sad  _ Whirl _ is", Rodimus says, snickering into the crown of Seachange's head when Wing's vocaliser gives up on him with a crackle of static and he buries his face in his arms. The sparkling's field is fuzzy, but pleased, and he hums happily when Rodimus offers him a hand to high-five. "Wing, report to medbay and have First Aid look at that burn."

"I'd rather die than live with such betrayal, thank you'", Wing deadpans, getting a giggle from Seachange. "Really, though -- is it just me, or does Prime's energy signature seem more harmonious?"

Blades offlines her optics for a moment, folding over herself as though in physical pain. "Wing. What the actual, hippie frag."

"It does, though", Seachange hums, so close to tipping into recharge it's barely more than static.

"...what the tiny, traitorous frag."

Roddy shrugs, shifting Seachange on his lap to kick his legs up over the side of his chair, his frame making a cradle for the sparkling to curl in more comfortably. "To be fair, Drift says the same kinda weird slag all the time and it's usually correct."

"Drift is very good at weird slag, yes", Wing says dryly, "almost as good as he is at denying he's good at it."

"Not getting into it", Blades and Rodimus say in unison, the former still faceplanted onto her console in exasperation.

"In any case", Rodimus adds, redirecting the conversation, "Hound, new approach vector. Let's find ourselves some trouble, shall we?"

  
  


The mainland's access to not only civilisation, but also  _ extremely _ good bakeries, means that the day of the first off-planet arrivals finds Yaser and Maggie sitting on a grassy stretch of land within base bounds with Charlie, enjoying the time off Jazz ensured all his team got and eating the pinkest cake in the known universe. Sargent's off somewhere in Virginia, courtesy of Skywarp Airlines, but they've made sure to inform her via mobile that it tastes like freedom, and hope, and amounts of sugar and butter that would make Ironhide blow a gasket if he knew what they're eating.

It was a little weird, at first, to have Charlie around. Some of Lennox's squad -- the ones who'd been in Qatar during Blackout and Skorponok's initial attacks -- had taken a while to get used to working with the former Decepticons, and the occasional bouts of gruffness had been jarring, to a point, but it was nothing compared to having some civilian shortstack who hadn't actually  _ lived _ through the conflict glaring at anyone with red eyes on sight. Yaser still doesn't know what it was that Jazz and Captain Faireborn said to them on their second night in Jarvis, but it got Jetstorm to stop hiding in medbay and Charlie to tone down the guard dog act, at least. It didn't take long for them to integrate properly, after, even if Jetstorm and Megatron still tend to be on opposite sides of the island at all times.

(It's more or less fair, since Jetstorm's grudge seems to be a personal thing rather than the 'four million years of generalised fear and resentment' stuff everyone else is grappling with, but Yaser can't quite shake the feeling that going to those lengths to avoid someone seems kind of a dick move, especially considering how relatively small the base is and how long-lived Cybertronians are.)

"So this is what I don't get", Maggie says, breaking the silence. She has Charlie's head pillowed on her thigh, a paper plate on Charlie's stomach and her dark hair being braided into a crown by Maggie's idle fingers. "Why do you even have starships if you can just cannonball down from space?"

"Ever heard of the laws of physics?", Sideways says, his back resting against Jetstorm's side so casually one wouldn't think they'd been ideological enemies until a few months ago, were it not for the startled angle of Jetstorm's finials when Sideways first claimed the spot. It makes Yaser think of those pictures of tiny animals interacting with  _ far _ larger creatures their dad is always sharing on Facebook. "Vector Alpha is the deadliest glitch in space. Even a ping pong ball can kill you after long enough accelerating, and we can't adjust course after entering transition form."

"Mhm", Jetstorm agrees. The vibrations from his voice make the ground shake, just a little, and when he flicks his wings, the shade covering the three humans shifts briefly as well. "Besides, meteor cosplay spends mass and energy that aren't easy to regain, especially in the kind of situations that necessitate unassisted atmospheric entry, and there's only so many supplies we can carry in subspace."

"Makes sense." Yaser nods sagely, and flops on their back to look up at the lounging jet, "but it does raise an important question."

"Yes?"

"Who the hell taught you what cosplay is?"

  
  


The funny thing about Bumblebee, Sam and Mikaela have come to find, is that even if he's a badass robot warrior who transforms into the most gorgeous car ever, he's also kind of a massive dork.

_ "Tell everybody I'm on my way, and I just can't wait to be there", _ booms the song on Bumblebee's radio as they tear through the road towards the nearby hills. Who knew aliens would be so into animation soundtracks?

_ "Just can't wait to be there", _ Mikaela sings along, her eyes closed and a blinding smile on her face.

_ "With blue skies ahead, yes, I'm on my way, and nothing but good times to share!" _

Sam is fully aware he has a singing voice like the cries of dying frogs, so he's far happier listening to his girlfriend and best friend work their way through the  _ Brother Bear _ and  _ Road to El Dorado _ soundtracks. He does, however, occasionally provide extra percussion by drumming on his legs or Bumblebee's wheel. With one of her hands on the back of Sam's neck and her head thrown back on the side of her backrest as though it were someone's shoulder, Mikaela only laughs when Bumblebee spins them in a couple of ecstatic donuts on the empty road.

Even with Bumblebee's antics it doesn't take long for them to arrive to the edge of the forest, which presents an unexpected problem in the form of snapped logs interrupting the path.

"Damn it", Mikaela huffs, sitting up and leaning out the window to get a better look. "Ironhide must've been using it for his obstacle courses."

“It's fine, don't worry", Bumblebee reassures her, his voice only faintly threaded with static nowadays. "Optimus manages to walk here well enough; I'll just hike instead."

Mikaela beams, sliding back into her seat. She and Sam make to open their doors at the same time Bumblebee's interior starts to shift, and the rearview mirror smacks Sam on the head in the process -- _hard._ _"Ow!"_

"What are-- Sam!", Bumblebee exclaims, the space above Sam's head abruptly disappearing as Bumblebee retracts his roof. "Are you okay?"

"What the hell?", Mikaela asks, her eyes wide as she leans forward to inspect Sam's forehead, more startled than anything else. "Are you alright? Do we need to call Ratchet?"

"I'm fine, Bee, it's--  _ ow, _ it's okay, Kaela, it was just a bump." Sam winces, but bears the examination without moving, lifting a hand to grip Bumblebee's dashboard in what he hopes is a comforting way. "Which one of us are you threatening with Ratchet, again?"

"Either! Or-- both?", Mikaela says, and turns to frown at Bumblebee's radio with concern, her hand joining Sam's on the dashboard as though checking for a fever. "Are  _ you _ okay? If you get what Megatron had I will smack your aft back into sanity, I swear to god--"

"No! It's nothing like that, I'm alright, I promise", Bumblebee says, the damage in his vocaliser far more noticeable when he's shaken. "I just-- I didn't expect you two to move, why did you  _ do _ that?"

"You said we'd just walk to the top", Sam says, a little defensively.

"I said  _ I'd _ walk to the top", Bumblebee retorts, and Sam can almost see the look on his face, the way his wings move when he's fussing. "It's a half hour walk for humans, neither of you are wearing suitable footwear, and you'd end up dehydrated in this heat, I wasn't about to make you hike like this."

"So you were just gonna, what, transform with us still inside?", Mikaela asks, eyebrows raised, though her shoulders are relaxing, at least. "Wouldn't we become human pancakes?"

“What? No, transformation isn't fixed", Bumblebee says, bewildered. The idea is apparently so ludicrous that the anxious edge in his voice bleeds away, and Sam finds his own tension fading as the static smooths into his usual tone, quietly affectionate. “It would rather lose its point if it were. Some sequences are more comfortable, or faster, or showier, but as long as size isn't a factor and no one is  _ moving around, _ there's no risk of 'pancaking' anything."

Mikaela narrows her eyes at that, amused despite herself. "You think you're funny, don't you."

"Hilarious, in fact."

"Alright then", Mikaela says, and nudges Sam to sit back down, stretching in her own seat. "Show us what you got, big guy."

_ Uh oh, _ Sam thinks, and then Bee's electric laughter is all around them, somehow both calming and giving him goosebumps at once. It's almost too fast to understand -- one second they're surrounded by Bee's interior, just at arm's length from each other, and then there's the slightest sense of movement before they find themselves several metres above the ground, sitting on Bumblebee's shoulders.

The little  _ clink _ as their seatbelts unlock and slide off them feels  _ incredibly _ smug.

"Okay", Sam says, a little breathless. His stomach is turning in a pretty acrobatic, but not entirely unpleasant way. "Make that a point for Bee."

"I try", Bumblebee says, turning his head to give Sam a very earnest look. It is completely ruined by the fact that Sam can tell by now that if his wings are tilted like that, it means he's being a self-satisfied little shit, but that only makes him laugh and bump his shoulder to Bumblebee's audial.

They crest the hill surprisingly quickly, skipping the marked path in favour of a more direct route. Sam would have expected Bumblebee to struggle more with navigating the dense cover of the trees, but he's oddly graceful for someone his size, nimble in a way some of the other bots most definitely aren't. Bumblebee lowers himself onto a mostly flat patch of grass overlooking the base, cups a hand close to each of his shoulders to bring them down to the ground, and he makes an amused little chirping noise when Sam and Mikaela immediately perch on one of his legs, instead, side to side with her back to his chest.

"Okay?", Mikaela asks, tilting her head back to look up at Bumblebee. It's teasing, mostly, but there's a soft, questioning note in her voice Sam has learnt to recognise by now.

Bumblebee smiles, his finials swaying back a few degrees and his wings flicking once, gently enough it barely makes any noise. "’Course it is", he says, warm and affectionate, and Sam ducks his face into the crook of Mikaela's neck to hide the goofy, incongruous grin trying to take over his face. 

It's not quite sundown by the time Teletraan broadcasts the approach confirmation, but the sky's started to bleed into a fiery gradient, blue turning to violet, pink turning to a yellow blaze. From the top of the hill, with the trees no longer shadowing them, Mikaela's hair glints dark red, her cheeks are a little flushed from the heat when she peers back at him, two dimples appearing on her cheeks and all but vibrating with anticipation. Sam doesn't think he could stop the wide, helpless smile he gives her in return, even if he wanted to -- even if he's sure it's twice as dorky as the one he was hiding before. A few minutes after, Bumblebee makes a whirring sound that feels suspiciously like the Cybertronian equivalent of muffled squealing; Sam is almost entirely certain he'd be bouncing in place if he didn't have two extremely squishable humans cuddled on top of him.

"C'mon, c'mon, c'monnn", Mikaela is chanting under her breath, one foot tapping away like a rabbit's.

"Primus, this is  _ torture", _ Bumblebee groans, a hint of laughter in it. "I swear they're not arriving just to spite us, personally."

Sam laughs, then laughs harder when Mikaela makes a wounded noise and pretends to swoon melodramatically at the idea. "Shouldn't you be used to this, man?"

"Shouldn't  _ you _ be suffering with us?", Mikaela says, mock-archly.

"Right?", Bumblebee agrees, and wraps two careful fingers around Mikaela in commiseration. She leans into his hold, patting his knuckles with a face befitting an elderly nun comforting the infirm. "I can't believe you have no sympathy for us."

She shakes her head. "That's boys for you. Completely heartless."

"Also, in my defence, usually when I'm this eager for a shuttle to arrive, they're reinforcements, and I'm getting fired at. I'm bad at waiting without a distraction."

Sam snorts. "We can sing campfire songs, if you like."

"Jesus", laughs Mikaela, "I'd rather go back to  _ The Lion King, _ thanks."

That does tangent into a mostly hummed performance of  _ I Just Can't Wait To Be King _ \-- specifically, the unofficial  _ 'I Just Can't Wait 'Til They're Here' _ remix Mikaela assures him was meant for the second movie. Then, halfway through, Bumblebee gasps quietly, "There!", and it takes a moment of eagerly searching the sky to find what he's looking at.

It seems nothing but a dot in the distance, for a few seconds, but once it's close enough to see Sam realises it is the weirdest shuttle he's ever seen, in or out of video games. There's something that looks like an extra wing at the top of it, for starters, all of it painted so dark the sky is painfully bright in comparison. It falls as though trying to follow the sun towards the horizon, grows larger and larger until it dwarfs even some of the base's hangars. The wings appear to be reconfiguring as it approaches the ground, and for a moment Sam thinks, a little ridiculously, that it's going to gallop the rest of the way, but the sudden rush of air that slows its descent proves him wrong before he can half joke, half ask Bee about it.

He could swear it doesn't even make a sound when it lands.

A few moments later one of its sides slides open, and the first bot appears. 

Optimus waits patiently for them to descend, Jazz standing a couple of steps behind. There's something battle-worn and hyper-alert about the pale green mech on the ramp as they start to descend, some way of holding themselves the ones on Earth are slowly starting to lose; it's only upon seeing it again that Sam can recognise its absence. More bots start coming out behind them, a surprising mix of shapes and sizes, over half a dozen from what Sam can see.

Bumblebee is shaking, so faintly it is only their closeness that allows them to tell. Sam brushes his arm gently, meeting his gaze and signing,  _ 'You alright?' _

His optics are the brightest blue Sam's ever seen, a sky to the sea in Mikaela's eyes.  _ 'Yes' _ , Bumblebee signs with his free hand, leaning close enough to rest his temple against both their sides, pleasantly cool in the sunset heat. "Yes. I'm okay."

The large green mech at the front approaches Optimus, the flat panels at their back flaring behind them like a halo as they press their forehead to Optimus' wrist, the last of the light catching on them in sharp-edged lines of fire.

"My Prime", the mech says, voice echoing in Bumblebee's speakers for his and Mikaela's sake. Optimus takes their hand in his own, covers it with the other.

“My friends”, he says, and for the first time since that last battle, Optimus lets his mask retract, and smiles. "Welcome to Earth."

  
  


The green mech turns out to be Springer, the leader of the Wreckers team -- which is, as far as Mikaela and Sam are concerned, the coolest name ever, and in dire need of rebranding as a hard rock band. He heads out with Optimus not long after they land, the rest of the bots spilling onto the base to explore and stretch their legs with the slow rise of the stars above.

There's a hangar with a small tower of equipment that works as a remote server for Teletraan; Mikaela and Nolazco, one of the second wave of NEST members, had helped Jazz set up a library of schematics for the arriving bots to download from it without needing physical vehicles to scan. The three of them make their way there after climbing back down from the overlook, Mikaela and Sam perched again on Bumblebee's shoulders as they watch Jazz walk three of the Wreckers through the available models, slipping in and out of English as they figure out Cybertronian words none of the others had needed yet.

The tallest of three has wings, which is surprising even after meeting Jetstorm and Skyfire -- save for Barricade and Sideways, every Decepticon they've met so far has been some sort of flier, while the Autobots seem to be mostly ground vehicles. When Sam mentions it, Bumblebee's face goes through a quick series of expressions that makes Mikaela's gaze turn into something between concerned and keen.

"It's… complicated", he admits. "One of the regions that held the most fliers allied with Megatron, right at the start of the war, and the other one was among the first to fall, for unrelated reasons. Vos' Seekers were better suited for combat than every other airframe type, so it meant that eventually…"

"Oh." Sam bites his lip, understanding sinking like lead. The flier standing next to Jazz is rather on the small side -- barely bigger than Ironhide, in fact, which is a significant contrast to Starscream or Blackout. "So Skyfire and Jetstorm…?"

"Are in the minority, yes", Bumblebee confirms quietly. "As is Windblade herself. Jazz can probably give you the demographics, but generally speaking, there are almost no Autobot winged fliers left."

There isn't a lot he can say, after that, but Bumblebee seems content enough with the gentle press of Sam's shoulder to the side of his head, just behind his audials, a brief smile gracing his face -- that is, until the sound of what is either a charging elephant or Megatron on a rampage explodes through the base. 

Bumblebee's wings droop, and he shifts closer to the nearest walkway with a couple of hurried backsteps. “You, uh, might want to get somewhere safe for a bit.”

Mikaela looks wary, but climbs onto the platform anyway, then helps Sam up from Bumblebee's other shoulder. "Alright. Care to elaborate?”

“Well, I haven't seen him in a while, but--”

A golden blur suddenly cuts across the room, and Sam is  _ sure _ he doesn't imagine the undignified sound Jazz makes as the mech who just tackled him sends them both on a rather acrobatic tumble that nearly ends with them smashing into a wall. Behind them, the Wreckers continue their browsing without as much as a flinch.

“You bleeding _ glitch!",  _ the mech snarls, pinning Jazz to the ground in a headlock that wouldn't look out of place in the Cirque du Soleil.

“I'm still alive!", Jazz protests, visor flashing as he turns the tables on the other mech and pushes him down, instead -- never mind the fact that he's twice Jazz's size.

With an enraged noise befitting an atomic bomb, the bot rolls so sharply Jazz just barely misses the top of the gate as he's flung out of the hangar, and dives out after him in the same breath. “Not once I'm done with you, you won't be--  _ 'Fight smart’, _ he says! Fight smart, my  _ AFT!” _

Mikaela stares, her wince as Jazz skids to a stop and kicks his attacker into the air like a bucking horse somehow looking simultaneously pained and impressed. "Friend of his?"

"Creation, actually."

Sam's head hurts just from trying to follow their fight, not helped in the slightest by the blinding overhead lights reflecting off silver and gold plating. “He's so  _ shiny. _ How come none of you guys are that shiny?”

Bumblebee doesn't even try not to laugh, but Sam doesn't particularly mind, too busy watching the bots' shenanigans. “Tyger Pax does that to a person. The rest is just Sunstreaker being… Well. Sunstreaker.”

After a moment, a new Wrecker peers briefly into the hangar, not even blinking when Sunstreaker barely misses their head by half a metre as he's flung back inside. Something glints behind them as they turn around again, what looks like an engraved sheath clasped at their back.

Mikaela stares. "Is that a  _ sword?" _

"A Great Sword, yes", Bumblebee says, head tilted curiously in response to Mikaela's surprise. "All the…" He pauses, blinks. "I don't know what the term they'd prefer is. Windblade?"

Two of the Wreckers turn around at Bumblebee's call, though it's only the flier that replies, wings tilted in a smile. "Yes, Bumblebee?"

"What are you calling the--" He switches to Cybertronian, a stark contrast between it and Bumblebee's voice in most human languages, yet oddly beautiful all the same.  _ "Bahador? Vityaz? Bushi?" _

Windblade huffs, her smile turning wry. "We spent almost the entire way down arguing about it, actually. I think we should use  _ Bogatyr, _ but Drift says  _ Yuxia _ is closer. We compromised on Knights after Arcee threatened to space us, even if it's too much like  _ justicar _ for both our tastes." The small blue mech next to her -- Arcee, apparently -- gives her a beatific look, which turns into a shameless grin when Windblade shakes her head, openly fond. 

"Are you a Knight as well, then?", Sam asks, leaning on the handrail to peer at them.

Arcee rolls their optics, though the gesture isn't particularly mean. "The only one around, as far as Drift's concerned."

"He's  _ still _ refusing to get knighted?", Bumblebee asks, sounding amused -- if not surprised -- by this information.

"Something, something, 'I only trained unofficially', blah, blah, blah, 'self-deprecation is my kink' -- who the hell cares. We're siccing Prime  _ and _ Ratchet on him, don't worry", says the mech standing by Arcee and Windblade, not bothering to turn around -- in a voice  _ exactly _ like Arcee's own. Noting Sam and Mikaela's startled looks, Arcee laughs. "I'm not hacked, I'm a polyframe. Don't look so scared."

Mikaela's face brightens, instantly fascinated. "So there's actually two of you? How does that work?"

"Not a clue", Arcee says, surprisingly cheerful about it. "There's only ever been six recorded cases, and it cannot be induced as far as we know. Though there's just one of me, really, I've just got triple the hardware." The pink Arcee glides closer to the walkway just in time for Jazz and Sunstreaker to roll to a stop with an unpleasant screech of metal on concrete, Sunstreaker's bulk flattening Jazz to the ground. "You losers done?"

"For the sake of our construction budget, yes", Jazz says cheerfully. "Say hi to the new kids, Sunny."

"Hi to the new kids, Sunny", Sunstreaker deadpans, smirking when Jazz groans like he's in physical pain. "Sam and Mikaela, right?" He sits up and tilts his head, unruffled by Jazz swinging up his arm to perch on his shoulder like the world's most lethal cheerleader. “So you're the ones who fixed the Slagmaker, huh. I have to say, I never thought you'd be so little.”

“Well, we're shorter”, Mikaela says pleasantly. “Closer to hell."

Sunstreaker laughs, startled, and when Sam kisses Mikaela's hair, smiling, both she and Bumblebee preen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! Just wanted to give you all a heads up -- this week is gonna be kind of wild (there's a strike plus some Important University Stuff happening), so chapter 7 will be posted in two weeks instead of the usual one. But! I bring you playlists as an apology -- the [score](https://open.spotify.com/user/aerialbots/playlist/7Bdzx6S8bg5Je2gLnrxHGC/) for the fic as well as the [soundtrack](https://open.spotify.com/user/aerialbots/playlist/5tUuyf4HoHEe4BuadYhHua). The track order and scenes/characters for each will be posted at the end of the story. Thank you for reading! See you all in two weeks. ♡


	7. the moon molten gold

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't think I'd had as hard a time as I did these past four months in a very long time. I don't think I'm fully past them, either, but I'm incredibly grateful to have survived this far. If you're reading this: thank you so much for waiting. Rereading your kind comments and continuing this story for you all have been one of the few things keeping me holding on.

The little beep the computer makes after the transmission ends feels inappropriately cheery.

“...huh”, says Misfire, breaking the silence at last. He doesn't know when Grimlock pulled him into his lap, exactly -- he was kind of distracted by this spectacular piece of gossip unfolding just now -- but it was probably after the whole 'war is hell' thing. Swoop is even happier now they're both in her field range, though, and it's not as if Misfire  _ minds. _ “So that's like... a  _ thing _ now, then.”

Crankcase crosses his arms, scowls. “A thing, my aft. It's gotta be a trap. That's the dumbest, nerdiest, most power-of-friendship, direct-to-TV movie slag I have  _ ever _ heard. ‘The AllSpark healed his crazy, hurr dhur’. As  _ if.” _

“I dunno, it's worth checking out”, Spinister says, and immediately gets judgemental stares from all the other adults for his troubles. “Come  _ on, _ you guys, isn't that like, The Dream™? No more war bullshit?”

Upside down in the crawlspace she refuses to admit she's been stuck in for the past two days, Slash rests her head on her hands -- or her hands on her chin, more like. "Isn't it, though? I thought you all wanted to go back to Cybertron.”

“Assuming they don't court martial us for defecting”, Krok says dryly, "and ignoring the fact that half of us have never been, but sure."

"I wanna go to Cybertron", Snarl and Swoop pipe as one, predictably enough.

"Anyone who doesn't do chores is legally a bitty", Crankcase reminds them with narrowed optics, "and bitties don't get to put their tiny afts in danger."

"I do chores!", Slash protests.

“Kid, you haven't done slag in two days because you got your not-so-tiny aft stuck up there and you're too hard-headed to own that you still can't work that weirdass altmode", Nickel says, unimpressed. "You lost your chance to escape bittyhood this month."

There's a noise that sounds  _ suspiciously _ like a snort from Deszaras' spot on the couch, but considering Slash can't turn her neck enough to glare at him, she contents herself with scowling at the world in general.

"Not to get everyone back on track or anything", Fulcrum says, "but I feel like we  _ really _ need to think this one through before making a decision."

"Well, yeah, but without information we can't do much more than play Rachni Roulette, can we?"

“Last time we did that Crankcase nearly ended up symmetrical”, Spinister points out.

”Fine, then let's see what we do know.” Misfire raises a hand, counting on his fingers, “One, Meggles is completely fragging crazy, and we can't trust for slag single word he says, even to his Prime.”

Krok snorts. “That being said, two: Autobots suck, but they're too uppity to set something like this for a trap.”

“It does have spark signatures", Slash agrees, but Crankcase's frown only deepens.

“Can be faked. Probably.”

“Not a Prime's", Nickel says with a shake of her head. "Not unless it was Alpha Trion herself, and she's been dead longer than jets have been flying.”

“So we're assuming the message is legit, or at least from the ones allegedly sending it.”

Deszaras flicks his tail, catching everyone's optics. "What if Prime's also gone off the bend?”

“Oooh, bad to contemplate.” Misfire nods. “A good, terrifying suggestion, tiny dragon Andraste.” Deszaras's mouth twitches as he tries not to grin at the nickname, but he gives up when Snarl reaches for his head, ducking for the approving pats the sparkling's clumsy hands bestow upon his face. Anyone else would get four dozen sharp teeth and a big dose of dying; Snarl gets nothing but an armful of pleased, preening affront to nature.

Fulcrum makes a face, but nods. “It's worth considering. I mean, it sounds about as likely as the whole...” He gestures vaguely at the console, which is now displaying the bouncing Portals screensaver. “I don't know. Grimlock, you actually sided with the mech -- you think there's a chance he's cracked?”

Clearly half wishing he'd lost his memory as well as his speech skills, Grimlock shrugs. “Grimlock not  _ like _ Prime, but that not mean Grimlock not trust him. Him take care of people. Only thing that glitch him good be dead Slagmaker."

“Huh", Misfire says again, propping his chin on Swoop's head. "So then this could somehow, against all odds, be real.”

“Weird as frag, Grimlock know."

“Then...?”, Krok prompts.

Grimlock sighs. “Scavengers  _ really _ need go? We okay. We not need rejoin anyone."

The look Nickel shoots Grimlock could level cities. “Grims, you're missing more bits than I can count, and we don't  _ have _ either the equipment or materials to repair you. We likely never will. Do you really want to go the rest of your life speaking like that?” Then, through the shared comm link,  _ ‘Do you really think the bitties don't deserve to meet other Cybertronians? To see home?’ _

Grimlock sets his jaw with a heavy huff, but thankfully Swoop's head popping up from Misfire's grip breaks the staring contest before it can turn into a  _ moment _ . “Are you talking about us over comms?”, she asks, her big yellow optics narrowed in a frown, “because that's unfair, especially when Strafe's asleep and we can't get her to help us hear you.”

Krok huffs, but can't hold back a half smile. “That is the point, tiny."

_ “Rude.” _

“Alright, fine, show of hands", Misfire says. "Those for staying put and/or turning tail?”

Stubbornly, Crankcase and Grimlock raise their hands. Grimlock goes as far as to take one of Swoop's tiny claws and lift it too, which gets him an optic roll from Nickel and giggles from the sparklings.

“Those for going?"

Everyone else raises their hand, then -- or a wing, in Deszaras' case, since he's both in altmode and an irreverent little fragger. Slash lets both her arms drop over her head, and Snarl raises two hands as well; Grimlock stops Swoop from doing the same.

“Bitties and stubborn dweebs who haven't done their chores aside", Krok says, "it's 'going' by a landslide."

Slash and Snarl crow, high-fiving over Des' head. Grimlock hugs Misfire and Swoop closer, and says with an incredible amount of feeling:  _ "Ugh." _

  
  
  


The moon is low in the sky by the time Arcee leaves Springer and Optimus to themselves, inching slowly towards dawn, and in silent agreement they continue walking the woods with unhurried, ambling steps. Springer's unconcealed curiosity leads the way, and Optimus trails in his wake, enjoying the company -- and, to be honest, the respite. He thinks Springer may suspect this, from the way he meets Optimus' gaze when they come face to face around one of the larger trees.

"You holding up okay, sir?", Springer asks, as though it isn't  _ Optimus' _ purpose to be the one asking that very question.

"As well as any other, I believe", he replies, not quite an evasion. The faint sceptical tinge of Springer's field makes it hard to mistake what he thinks of his answer, but he doesn't press, simply nodding and falling into step next to Optimus. "And yourself?"

Springer snorts. "Prime, last time my presence wasn't enough to make every psych in a five kilometre radius sit up and frown, I was assimilating protomass in an ontogenetic tank." The weaponised candour startles a laugh out of Optimus, and Springer's face takes on a pleased look, his field loosening, blooming. "Honestly? No idea. It was easier to worry about the others and leave my own processing for later, up until 'later' arrived."

Optimus half smiles despite himself, running his fingers over the leaves of a young sycamore, careful not to snag any of them between his fingerplates. "I'm familiar with the approach, yes. Although in my case 'later' prefers to be called Ratchet." They separate to weave around one of the wider trunks, switch places as they are reunited, a ghost of a dance. "Do you think you might struggle to adjust to civilian life?"

"I am… trying to prepare for the possibility", Springer admits. "I'm not scared, exactly. It wouldn't be the first time I have to hit the ground running, and I  _ want _ peace, it's what I fought for all this time, but… I don't know. I guess I never really thought I'd live to see it myself."

_ Neither did I, _ thinks Optimus, and waits for Springer to gather his thoughts. The foliage is tinted blue and gold around them, the moonlight and Springer's biolights creating something not quite warm, but not entirely cold.

"It's staggering, I suppose", Springer says at last, "to think of it being over. It's defined my entire life, but it hasn't even been that long, on the scale of our species, has it? All of this was set into motion long before I existed, but it did have a beginning. And now I am seeing its end."

He holds his ground when Springer skirts closer again, rotors shifting restlessly for a moment, and as he prevaricates in front of Optimus, one thumb rubbing at the inside of his palm, Optimus chirrs gently, and draws him close.

Around them, the night is still. The air is warm and quiet, as though mindful of this attempt at courage, of the vulnerability on Springer's field as he allows himself to let go. A tremour creeps into his frame in painstakingly slow degrees, near-imperceptible despite being right against Optimus' chest. When he speaks, his voice is rough with static, brittle as glass. "Tarantulas used to say… He said science was art given purpose. And he was very clear about mine." His frame is painfully still, his hands just barely touching Optimus' plating. Quietly, Springer says, "I don't know what I will be without it."

It cuts Optimus to the quick, too familiar and stinging, but his field remains even, his frame steady around Springer's. He takes Springer's hands in his own, infinitely careful, and makes sure to hold Springer's optics when he says, "You will be who you've chosen to be, sweet one. Whatever form that takes. There is always need for good in the world, and justice to be sought beyond war."

Springer's field slips into disarray, just for a moment, relief and despair and joy, and he lets out a deep, shuddering sigh. He feels incongruously small in Optimus' arms, young and tired and as full of possibility as Earth itself. "Then I guess we'll see if I'm as good a builder as I'm a Wrecker."

  
  
  


Separation will do a number on one's spark.

It isn't exactly surprising; it takes a certain dedication to create a stable bond to begin with, since it is only with frequent merging that a significant degree of quantum entanglement can be achieved. Regardless of their romanticising in popular culture, spark bonds are complex, delicate things, and not everyone finds the idea appealing enough to be worth all the hassle involved. Some people like their privacy, or worry about potential medical complications. Some people are willing to go through with it all the same. Neither of these things is particularly unusual.

Then the war cracks, then shatters, every cornerstone of their species, along with more of those fragile connections than will ever be known.

Desynchronisation is the first symptom, they all come to learn. Not quite lag, not quite an echo; uninfluenced by outside forces, sparks will slowly return to their natural frequencies, rather than the carefully attained middle ground that comes with establishing the bond. There's a dullness of feeling that grows by the day, clear communication slowly replaced by abstract understanding. Eventually a pair will find themselves only sensing each other in flashes, sparks reaching out across time and space during their fraughtest moments.

Ever so slowly, the entanglement will decay, and erode, and fade.

There's only a sliver of feeling left to Drift and Ratchet, threads woven in the scant millennia they had each other struggling against the merciless passage of time. Hesitation and then duty have kept them apart far longer than they ever were together, to the point that the fact that they even  _ are _ still bonded borders on a statistical anomaly, but for once in his life Ratchet doesn't care about the how or why. He cherishes that minute strain of feeling like the most precious thing he has left, because it  _ is, _ and that is all that matters. These half breaths of joy and terror, relief and rage, are the one unbroken promise in his life. 

The certainty that Drift was alive -- that one day, if he held on, if he did his best, he might get to see his sparkmate again -- was the only thing that kept Ratchet from walking onto the path of a plasma shot more times than he'd like to admit.

He can feel him now, in fractured increasing waves, a yearning so ferocious his own field strays in and out of panic with its urgency. The profusion of feeling is beyond what humans and their tears can understand, but Ratchet welcomes it all the same ( _ all collisions sound the same to the spark, _ murmurs the ghost of a memory), and moves as carefully as he can to keep his frame from shaking.

For all that Ratchet wants to meet the tide with his own desperate need, to let the wild caged thing in his spark claw and thrash and cry out for its mate, Drift deserves a soft welcome, something steadfast and gentle to catch him at the end of this hell. Ratchet can be that, for him. He will be. What his spark and frame think of it is negligible. 

Predictably enough, Ironhide is leaning against a nearby building, several rangers milling around at the edge of the tarmac in a spectacularly bad show of pretending to be at work.  _ 'Wondered when you'd show up', _ he says, raising an arm for Ratchet to settle under.  _ 'Five more minutes and I'd've sent out a search party.' _

_ 'The transport isn't here yet', _ Ratchet replies, just a little testily. Keeping his field even is a bigger strain than he expected, but he'll manage if it's the last thing he does. _ 'It's not like I don't have work to do.'  _ He doesn't, actually. He's been too restless to recharge since they made contact with the  _ Xantium. _ Retes and Beck are sworn to secrecy, though, and Megatron knows better than to tattle on him.

Ironhide clearly has half a mind to call bullshit, well aware as he is of Ratchet's tendency towards… creative liberties, so to speak, where facts about his well-being are involved, but he ends up keeping it to himself -- even if he does mutter something in Spanish Ratchet is sure is both very rude and entirely to blame on Martinez. Ratchet doesn't care. He's on a  _ mission. _

It all goes through the window the second the transport lands, of course.

His hands are _vibrating_ by the time the plane comes to a stop, but it's hard to think about it when the cargo gate lowers and 8,000 years of separation come crashing down on him. Ratchet's tearing through the tarmac before even fully processing that first flash of white, transforms in a mad sprint only for Drift to crash into him halfway, and he's here, _here,_ **_here._**

_ "Drift!", _ Ratchet cries, breathes, prays, Drift's voice echoing,  _ "Ratchet, Ratchet, Ratchet", _ like a mantra or a plea, in his audios and his spark and he's here, they  _ made _ it, and oh Ratchet loves him, he loves him, he loves--

Behind them by the engineering bay, Sinno's lip wobbles dangerously. "Oh. Oh, no. Is that his--?"

"Conjunx", Ironhide says, voice heavy with static. The shakes wracking Ratchet's frame can be heard over the sound of the transport's engines coming to a stop, his and Drift's electromagnetics bleeding sorrow and love so violently Ironhide's own spark twists with yearning, echoes of a bond long cut silent flaring hopelessly. "It's even worse with context."

_ (Be alive, _ he thinks, selfishly grateful neither Optimus nor Will are around, _ be alive, I am begging you to be alive--) _

Frassica's breath hitches, gaze glued to the reuniting couple, and Johanssen rubs her eyes more forcefully than is likely necessary. "I will cry  _ so _ hard on you, Eastwood, so help me robot god. Don't you dare to give me details."

On the tarmac, Ratchet falls to his knees, and Drift immediately follows him down, gathering him close to his chest and rumbling soft, wordless comfort, all but wrapping himself around Ratchet's frame.

The air shifts as the saltwater in Sinno's eyes spills, and Keating pulls him close, her own eyes wet, but steady. The sound that escapes Ironhide mustn't be as quiet as he thought, because Frassica leans against his ankle in the best approximation of a hug their size difference will allow for. Ironhide decides he's blaming Ratchet for the fact that the gesture makes him actually start crying.

The humans' bodies break into goosebumps at the sudden flare of his electromagnetics, but Johanssen joins the hug all the same.

  
  
  


Having new faces around is exciting and all, but it doesn't keep Verity from realising something's off with Barricade. She kind of wants to smack her head against a wall, because a day and a half without the dulcet tones of his bitching being enough to make her concerned reeks alarmingly of  _ feelings, _ and yet here she is, robot-hunting around the base.

There's probably something to be said about predictability, too; Hanta needs only take a look at Verity peering into the maintenance bay before she's shaking her head, then half-smiling at Verity's ensuing scowl. Khaira and Nolazco offer her a fist bump and a lazy salute in the mess and the medbay, respectively, but aren't particularly helpful either.

It takes her around half an hour total to  _ finally _ find Barricade, but find him she does, holed up in the half-built area that will be the mechs' science lab as soon as they finish making it Wheeljack-proof, whatever that means. There's a snarky comment on the tip of her tongue about the perfectly good robot-sized beds Faireborn spent weeks negotiating fancy materials for, but Barricade's door opens for her before she even finishes approaching, and the words fade unspoken, worry taking their place.

There had been a time where she didn't trust this mech, she remembers absently. The seatbelt coming around her makes it feel like a foreign concept, a fear belonging to someone else. Verity burrows into her seat like a cat, and after the silence stretches for a handful of minutes and no explanation seems forthcoming, she says, "Okay, spill. Do I need to kick someone's arse for you?"

The joke doesn't make him relax, which is odd -- if anything, Barricade's voice only sounds more tense than usual. Strike one. "No. I'm fine."

"Right", Verity says slowly, not even keeping her eyebrows from raising, "that's why you've been jittery for days, culminating with this exciting hide and seek tournament."

If Barricade had a face right now he'd be glaring at her into oblivion, she's sure, but right now he can only rev his engine. "I'm not  _ jittery", _ he growls, vents huffing warm air with it. He's not chucking her out his seat, though, so he's not actually mad. "And it isn't my fault you took so long to think of coming here."

Lost to the sands of time and secret military bases, the flattest look in recorded human history is born from Verity's face. It must be quite good by Cybertronian standards, too, because Barricade rumbles, as though grudgingly acknowledging the shocking amount of horsecrap in that statement, and tilts her seat a little further so she's more comfortable.

She curls on her side, nudges his steering wheel with a bump of her knee, accepting the silent apology. "So?"

Barricade sighs, something in the gesture making him sound a lot like Ratchet, which she refrains from informing him about; he'd definitely chuck her out of his seat if she said so. "I'm  _ fine,  _ kid. I don't need protecting."

The choice of words sticks out at her, though she isn't dumb enough to just  _ ask _ when he's so clearly defensive. "What about helping you give whatever's bugging you the stink eye?"

She can tell he's at least a little amused, even if he still makes a show of blowing more air at her. "Your thing for antagonising everything that gets in your way is gonna bite you in the aft someday."

"...did you just seriously tell me  _ I'm _ too antagonistic?  _ You,  _ the guy who spent all the drive down from Nunavut lowkey bitching at Optimus 'Sad Dad' Prime?"

"'Sad Dad', really?"

"He has the eyes of a heartbroken cartoon deer, and you're dodging the subject. Badly, too."

_ "Ugh", _ he groans again, with feeling. "If I tell you what's bothering me, will you  _ please _ fucking drop it?"

"If you tell me, I will stop asking you what it is, and start asking you other things", she offers, because she's helpful like that. 

He huffs so loudly she's tempted to make a crack about straw houses and big bad wolves, and only just manages to resist it. Eventually, as though it's being pulled out of him with industrial pliers and no anaesthesia, he says, "I don't trust the Wreckers."

"The new kids?" They seem nice, from what she's seen of them, but Verity knows better than most that seeming nice doesn't mean shit. "What've they done?"

"tt's a war thing", he says darkly.

Verity rolls her eyes. "Cade,  _ everything _ with you lot is a war thing. It's kinda your defining feature at the moment."  _ What with the raging post traumatic stress disorder, _ she doesn't say, because she may be a lot of things, but she isn't a hypocrite. "I'm not asking you to be rational, man. I just want to help."

Half a year ago, the silence that falls as he struggles with himself would've been enough to stop any further conversation on the topic.

Now, she waits him out.

"The Wreckers are...  _ were _ a black ops squad", Barricade says at last. His words fall on the edge between mechanical and ashen with grief; it's an all too familiar swan song. "Their job was to do all the shit nobody else wanted to do, or wasn't insane enough to try. On the side, they did damage control."

Verity frowns, fingers winding around his seatbelt. "Damage control?"

"War isn't just the fighting, kid. It's living with what you did to survive, knowing at the end of the line there's only more of the same waiting for you. You might be killing for something bigger, something  _ worthy, _ but worth doesn't make the face on the wrong end of your barrel any less familiar. Any less like yours."

She's very, very still. Some humans tremble at the drop of a bolt, Barricade has learned, but Verity just stops moving, slowly, like a wild thing waiting out a threat.

It makes his spark hurt, whenever she goes still.

"It's… too much to handle, for some people", he says, wishing Blackout were awake -- wishing, for maybe the second time in his life, that he was a softer person. "Not everyone can cope. Some break, never find themselves again." He exhales hard. "Some people break others to keep themselves whole. And that's when someone else has to intervene, for the good of everyone involved."

Verity grips the seatbelt a little tighter. "Damage control."

"Yes."

"They put people down if they went mad?"

"Their own. And others, too."

"I-- that's--" Her teeth clack uncomfortably as she stops abruptly, clenching her jaw. She doesn't as much as twitch when he slips out of altmode around her, dark eyes downcast and her strange little body terrifyingly fragile where it's perched on his knee.

She should have no business learning the ugliness of war. She shouldn't have had to end up here, taking a pathetic attempt at comfort from someone so hopelessly useless at this, so alien to her own kind.

But she deserves honesty, at the very least.

"Don't get the wrong idea", Barricade says, voice low. "We weren't any different. Or at least not enough. I wouldn't want the DJD near any of you, either."

Verity glances up at him, the hood of her jacket sliding back and ruffling her short hair. "DJD?"

"Decepticon Justice Division. They worked solely under the admiralty's orders, but they existed all the same."

It's her turn to be quiet, then. Barricade waits for her, too.

"I didn't know that. I didn't-- think. I knew about court marshalling, but..." She swallows, looks down again. "I didn't really think about… what it really meant. Or that it could apply to you guys as well."

Barricade rumbles his engine quietly, lets one of his hands move closer to her, not quite touching, so she can seek comfort if she wants it. Verity nudges it face up, crawls onto his palm so she's cradled by his fingers, not unlike her own heart safe inside her rib cage. 

"I'm glad you didn't", Barricade says. "I'm sorry you had to find out."

"You had to live with the knowledge", Verity says quietly. "So did Sideways, and Blackout. So can I."

"Sideways has a few hundred thousand years on you", Barricade points out, just a little wry. It gets a wan twitch of her mouth. "And I'd have spared him, if I could. Blackout, too, but the fool had signed up for it before I was even sparked."

She huffs, some humour returning to her eyes, and leans back against his fingers. "Well, you're the one who married him."

"I have a long history of questionable decisions", Barricade says, deadpan, then smirks at her. "You kids were pleasant anomalies."

Verity bursts out laughing. "I can't believe 'anomaly' is the nicest thing anyone's ever called me."

"Consider it payback", he replies, "for making me look up what  _ bara _ means."

  
  
  


The sun is high on a crystal-clear sky when he's taken from recharge, a familiar frame tangled with his own and gentle fingers on the angles of his helm.

"Hi", he whispers, his whole face shifting with a tremulous smile. "You're still here."

Drift's mouth curves in a mirror of his own, his field blooming like a dawning sun. He draws himself close enough for their foreheads to touch, traces a complicated  _ greeting _ glyph on the rise of Ratchet's cheek that wouldn't look out of place in a history book and which takes him a good half minute to parse.

_ A lighthouse set aflame, I find my purpose. _

"Someone's been cramming", Ratchet murmurs, just to feel the minute movements of Drift's silent laugh against him. He isn't disappointed. "I don't remember that one."

"Don't know how you would", Drift says, nuzzling the tip of his nose to Ratchet's chevron. "'s about… two hundred years old, give or take."

Having just cried thrice in less than three hours -- one of those times in  _ public,  _ heavens above -- and then fallen asleep in his conjunx's arms for what his chronometer says was almost two full days, Ratchet's too blissed out to manage anything more judgemental than a hum, optics offlining as he wraps himself a little tighter around Drift. "I'm surprised anyone managed to scrape enough fucks to keep writing poetry, with all that was going on."

This time he actually  _ hears _ Drift laugh -- that rough, shockingly deep laughter that means he's been caught off guard, and Ratchet's spark all but sings in response, their intertwined fields feeding off each other's joy. He tilts Ratchet's face up to kiss him, the infectious grin on his mouth spreading to Ratchet's own, and keeps cracking up again just as soon as Ratchet thinks he's calmed down.

"Alright, what's so funny?", Ratchet asks after the fourth time, words pressed into kisses against Drift's cheeks, and only eliciting more muffled giggles.

"I love you  _ so _ much", Drift says, cupping Ratchet's face in his hands with a look so sweet Ratchet's spark feels a thousand times lighter, "and you'd be surprised at what I would do for you. Scraping fucks for poetry isn't that impressive, all in all."

It takes a moment for it to hit him, but there is nothing Ratchet can say, after that, nothing but a sudden, desperate need to explain what words can never communicate in his clumsy grasp. He doesn't have poetry to aid him, like Drift does, but his hands once saved the spark intertwined with his own, and by some brief mercy of entropy it's a close enough language: a mapping of scars, of biolights, of memories; the mixed scent of disinfectant and that polish Drift uses for his swords; kisses pressed to whatever new prayers Drift has painted onto his plating, that garish colour Ratchet had only taken on as a threat should Drift not come back to him fading to white and grey and red under his lover's hands.

Afterwards, when they're warm and cooling and never cold again, tangled close and closest and two-made-one once more, it is Ratchet who traces Drift's features, this time.

_ Did you write any more?, _ he asks, and relishes being able to do so in silence.

Drift's smile is as beautiful as feeling his spark.  _ One for each day 'til the stars go out, _ he promises,  _ and another for the day after. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All my love to Aki, Kath, Brenna, Io, and Auri, and all my love to you. See you soon.


End file.
